Under One Roof
by Sarapsys
Summary: Wammy's House, in 60 patchworked ficlets from the perspectives of students and staff. Interquel of Sins of the Father.
1. Swap

**AN: I really just love exploring the idea of Wammy's House...I always imagine it being sort of a darkish Orson Scott Card's Battle School meets Bruce Coville's AI Gang with a dash of Hogwarts thrown in. While writing Sins of the Father I mentally planned out a lot of things that were happening outside of Roger's view, and that really didn't add anything to the point of the story, but I thought were kind of fun. So this will be sort of a collection of very, very loosely related shorty stories compatible with SotF, centered around the House and all the goings-on there. Not in any sort of order, and probably gradually introducing some (ok, a lot of) OCs.**

**ETA: Ultimately this morphed into sort of a chronologically parallel but plot-dependent "sequel" of Sins of the Father, so I recommend reading that first if you haven't already.  
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1: Swap

All the kids in the House are geniuses, but they're all different flavors of genius, and anyone would be an idiot not to take advantage of living in the middle of such a circus of talent. A white-grey-black market thrives at Wammy's, which the staff is only partially aware of. Things get slipped under doors, emailed on secure connections, passed at the dining hall tables, exchanged at night while dodging the watchful eyes of the matron and her aides. Program code, handmade or upgraded gadgets, consultations, help on homework, loyalty in social and academic and political spats—and of course, the universal currencies, money and cigarettes.

The medium of exchange that gets the most traffic, however, is information. In a place where everyone is scrambling to climb over everyone else, where even the slightest edge can tip the balance, information is gold.

That's why Linda is knocking on Matt's door at 3:00 am two days after Mello runs away.

It comes as no surprise to Matt, who's had several such visitors over the last thirty hours. Everyone knows that he and Qarri are the only ones whose bugs weren't knocked out when Roger upgraded the jammer, and Concord, who also probably could have hacked it, isn't around anymore. She was way too nice for this place, Matt often thinks; she'd share information for pretty damn cheap if she thought it was important enough. M and Q aren't above wringing people out for it. Fresh information, right from the headmaster's office, hot off the presses. Everyone knows that _something _happened in Roger's office, and Near isn't talking. Literally. Already Sember, Xie, Hopper, Echo, and Paolo have stopped by to buy the gossip; and Isabel made an attempt (stupidly) to wheedle it out under the pretense of comforting him, assuming (incorrectly) that Matt would be vulnerable in the sudden absence of his friend. All in all, Matt stands to make a nice stack in terms of cash and favors off of this unexpected ordeal.

After a moment of waiting, four different locks click, and the door swings open to reveal the hacker. "You want that bite, _da_?" he mutters, waving her in and snicking the door shut. Dealing in the hall would be stupid; Marta is severe about the curfew, and other students might overhear.

"_Da_," she confirms, picking carefully around tangles of cords that crisscross the floor in the screenlit darkness. Most of the kids sneak outside or at least open the windows to smoke, since Roger and the matron frown heavily on it, but the recent stress is apparently enough that Matt doesn't care; the room reeks of cigarettes. Screensavers play over three separate monitors and a heavy club mix thrums quietly on the speakers.

"Just a listen, or the clip?" he asks, rifling through the piles of clutter on his desk. He doesn't even have to ask which sound bite she wants. The whole House has been buzzing with furtive speculation, and anyone who can afford it is trying to get it out of someone.

"Clip." It will cost more, but Linda would far rather have her own copy of Matt's recording of Mello and Near's final conversation with Roger, to analyze without anyone observing her reactions. "What's the rate?"

Matt looks at her appraisingly. Linda assumes he does, anyway. He's started wearing those odd mirrored goggles lately (Linda has no idea how he can see in the dark in those things) and so she can see herself, reflected back in the huge round lenses, but not his eyes.

"Draw me a picture."

"…You want a drawing?" Linda repeats, extremely skeptical and just a tad touched, and wondering what, if anything, this request means.

"Don' get all fuzzy on me," says Matt, allowing the barest shade of scorn to color his voice. Not enough to make her mad enough to give up and go to another supplier, but enough to dispel whatever silly romantic notions he figures are cooking up in her head. "Nobody here gonna be anything short of ridiculously successful out there with the wormbait. Ten years and the scribbles in the margins of you math notes gonna be worth a fortune. Sketch me up something that'll tug on the purse strings of little old ladies with a shit ton of money and I get you a copy of that clip. _Hao ba_?"

"You sure can compliment a girl," she says flatly. So Matt's given up on the succession, it seems. Linda has a sickening feeling she knows exactly what she's going to hear on that clip.

"Tuh. Come back with double D's and we see about compliments," Matt mutters, rolling his eyes and hunting through the boxes of spare computer parts and hardware that line the walls for the desk lamp he uses to work on circuit boards. "I got pencils around here somewhere…." A heap of junk gets shoved off a table to clatter on the floor, the cord of a gaming system unplugged and the lamp cord plugged in. Linda winces at the sudden flare of yellowish light that pools over the table.

She's still a little miffed, but she just _has_ to know what's happened between the top two and really, given the sort of price he could ask, this is a steal. Linda sits down and starts drawing while Matt finds a clean disk and sets about copying the file. It doesn't take either of them long.

"Make sure you sign and date it," Matt tells her as he clicks the disk into a case and tosses it on the table, then stops dead upon seeing what she's drawn. "…That just low."

"In ten years' time s'not gonna be a security issue," Linda says coolly, swiping up the clip before he decides not to let her have it after all.

Matt snorts. "Whatever. Out." The hacker practically shoves her into the hall, and the four locks slot closed again.

"Thanks," she tells the door drily, then hurries back to her room to finally know for sure what the hell is going on around here, why the foundations of the world seem to be crumbling silently beneath their feet.

Meanwhile, Matt lights a cigarette and stares sidelong down at Linda's drawing, golden in the lamplight. A much younger Mello dashes full tilt on the football pitch, one foot swung back in preparation to smash into the ball, and the vague shadows of other players and the treeline are scribbled in behind him. Somehow in a few quick pencil strokes Linda has captured that fierce animal energy, the clench-jawed battle madness in his focused expression and the falcon-dive swoop of his arms.

Yeah, that'll bring in some cash, Matt thinks, and yanks out power cord of that warm yellow light, letting the dim icy glow of the computer monitors reclaim the room.

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_da _- (Russian) yes

_hao ba_ - (Chinese) How's that sound?/Is that suggestion good?


	2. Compulsion

**AN: I figure a closed environment like the House would have its own distinct slang...so mini glossary:  
scrubbed: removed from the Wammy's program  
tuning: psychotherapy  
brass: Wammy's staff**

**This will make somewhat more sense if you've read Sins of the Father; a couple of the OCs are mentioned in passing.  
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2: Compulsion

"…Ah," says Sember, who is the first to peek out his door at the insistent tapping sound ringing down the dormitory hall. "I thought Dr. Bull tuned that…habit."

Frozen in the act of nailing a third sock to his door, Jitter somehow manages to look guilty, embarrassed, and smug at the same time. "Torres? Hahaha. Well you know. We discussed it. Talked about it extensively. Beat it to death with a stick. Probably haven't heard the end of it. Guess I gotta go back for more tuning." Turning back to his door, Jitter resumes his frantic little hammer-taps. Another door swings open across the hall.

"All this racket, what that about?" Qarri complains, even as the next door opens and Hopper pokes his oversized nose out. "Uhhhhh…so should we put them locks back on our sock drawers?"

J giggles a little, pulling a fourth sock from his bulging pocket.

"Tch, _bu hao a,_ the brass not gonna like that at all, no," Qarri says, shaking her dark frizzy head. "You gonna get scrubbed if you keep it up, J."

A faintly hysterical note colors Jitter's nervous giggle, and he hammers faster. The other three watch, exchanging sideways glances.

"Who you tag?" Hopper asks, examining the row of left-foot socks (relieved to see that none of them are his).

The other boy smirks as he begins putting up the fifth one. "Well, this one is Crackpot's—"

"That new international law prof? Kreckenpol or something?"

"—_da, _s'right, Crackpot, and here I got Z, big R, little G, and N."

"You mean Nina, innit?" Sember says, looking vaguely worried.

Jitter gives the last sock a short tug and twirls the hammer around, grinning gleefully. "Nope, no sir, it's Near's."

"Oh God," Sember groans, covering his face with his pudgy hands, as Hopper doubles over with laughter.

"Oooh, ice baby gonna have cold toes," H chokes out, practically crying with mirth.

"How you get N? He never leave his door open," Qarri asks skeptically, arms crossed.

"Look at it though. No one else's socks that clean, 'cept Lazlo maybe, and he don' wear socks," Hopper points out.

"Didn't take it from his room," J sniggers.

"The laundry, _da_? Innit cheating?"

"No, not his room, not the laundry, nope." Jitter fidgets a little. "Nicked it right off his foot."

Q shakes her head, ignoring Sember's look of horror. "He fall asleep in the common room again?"

"You gonna be dead," S says, dismayed.

"Pff, what he gonna do? He's just a lil' _ni__ñ__ito." _Jitter, who stands head and shoulders above Qarri and Sember (both of whom are bigger than Near,) flicks his fingers dismissively.

"Easy for you, sayin' that," Sember mutters. "You been around longer than him."

"So he's a smartass _peque__ñ__ito_ shrimp, so what? What he gonna do, cry to the Warden? Bash me on another test? Serve him right, sticking his foot out like that, it just _called _me. So then I had to get more, so it wouldn't be lonely."

"S'yeah, S is right. If that really N's you gonna be in deep mud," Qarri says. "Deeper mud, 'cuz Bull's gonna skin you for bucking your head-tuning anyhow_. _Shrimp or no, he's a mean lil' brat if you piss him off."

The four of them look at the little white sock on the door for a few moments.

"…Nah," says H finally. "He probably won't even care."

"Who won't care about what?" asks Mello, striding down the hall with a book under one arm. He stops short of the little cluster of students, looks at the row of socks tacked to the door, and raises his eyebrows. "You're going to be scrubble if you can't stick to your tuning, J," he says neutrally, half-lidded eyes glittering.

"Tch, Warden won't scrub me over a few socks," Jitter retorts, his nervous giggle resurfacing.

"It has nothing to do with socks. It shows you can't control your own compulsions. Isn't that why Fallon got scrubbed?" Mello replies, a slightly predatory smile curling the corner of his mouth as his gaze travels over the stolen items. "…That's Near's. No one else with feet that small keeps their stuff that clean."

Qarri frowns and Sember sidles back in the direction of his door as the tension in the hallway pulls taut. Like J and H, F was one of the early candidates, and was only removed from the program a few months ago. No one in the older gang was surprised, but they weren't happy about it either-especially Jitter, who was one of his best friends.

"Mine now," Jitter snaps, twitching, as Hopper says darkly, "Well, you'd know about control, _da?_ Keep pickin' rows with N and it's not J that gets scrubbed."

The cool smirk twists abruptly into an animal mask of fury. "He asks for it," Mello bites out, then his hand shoots out to snag the tiny sock on the door.

"Oy!" Immediately a tussle breaks out, Sember and Qarri darting to the safety of their doorways as the older boys struggle over the sock. The sound of tearing fabric shreds the air as the little article of clothing rips free of its nail, and Jitter lets out an outraged cry.

"Whooaa," Hopper says, wedging himself into the fray and shoving the two scrawnier boys apart. "Shut the hell up before Ma Marta thunders down." Being as how he's rather older and a lot bigger, they reluctantly stand down, Jitter clutching the torn sock and nearly convulsing in agitation, and Mello's eyes blazing with anger in his scarlet face.

"Now, see here—" H starts, but Mello pushes past them all (Sember flinching back into his room as he storms by) and stomps off in the direction of his own room.

"Scrubble or not, neither L nor anyone is ever going to have use for a twitchy bugger who goes into seizures at seeing his own shadow," Mello spits over his shoulder, then disappears around the corner.

"Twitchy little bugger, twitchy little bugger," Jitter mutters fast under his breath, knotting the sock in his hands then giggling helplessly. "You know, I hope N bashes him into scrubble dust."

"Not like Near's any better," Sember murmurs.

Qarri snorts. "Tcha. Who is?" she says cynically, then slams her door.


	3. Cursed

3: Cursed

Beckon is getting scrubbed.

It's always a wrench in the social and political fabric of the House, when a letter is erased; the alphabet isn't meant to have gaps. For different students, it can mean the loss of an ally or the eradication of an enemy, another rung closer to the top or another rung gone between them and the bottom, a friend you'll never see again or that buffer of _at least I'm not as crazy as _ _stripped away. Trading deals need to be rerouted, alliances renegotiated, academic statistics recalculated. It's a variable torn from the equation of daily life, leaving uncertainty in its wake, and reminding everyone at the House that if they can't toe that winding, wire-fine line between somewhat deranged genius and full-out, unmanagable insanity, they'll wash out too.

This time is worse than usual. Usually the House is in chaos when a scrubbing is announced; for Beckon, though, instead of the storm of kids crying or exulting, hurrying to say goodbye or scrambling to be the first to fill the social gap, the very air is brittle and still, a crystal lattice of static electricity that everyone is afraid to break if they speak too loud or move too quickly.

The reason, of course, is that he's the second _B_.

The younger set, Mello and Near and those that followed them, know the first B as a half-secret everyone has heard, a shadowy legend that was cancerous and inhuman and mysterious and_ bad_, and still haunts the corners and spare rooms of the House like a boggart or a poltergeist. The first C through L (the Dukes, as the older kids like to call themselves, and the Crusties as they're called by all the younger students who are trying uselessly to escape Mello and Near's shadow), the ones who knew B, don't talk about him. For as scientifically-minded and logical as many of the kids are, they're downright superstitious when it comes to B-he's their mythology, the evil ghost in the attic, the beast whose barely audible breath hisses in the dark when you're alone.

Aris, the second A, feels the tension today much more acutely than most of the kids. Because now whispers are skittering through the rooms and halls and wires that the letter itself is cursed—and by extension, so is hers, the letter of B's victim.

It's absurd, really, because Aris was anything but a victim to Beckon; he preferred music and she preferred visual art, but their related interests and different goals, along with the proximity of their birth dates and rebirth into the world of Wammy's, made them natural friends and allies. She's always found him a bit spacey and naïve, if anything. Beckon was a unusually gentle, passive person in the context of the House, and in the end, that was his downfall.

She was actually there, when Beckon snapped. They were in a string quartet together as an elective. During rehearsal, he hit a single note slightly off beat, and their director made a corrective remark—it hadn't even been a rebuke, just a quick little comment, please keep playing—and the boy burst into tears, unable to stop as the rest of the quartet zigzagged to a jagged halt and the director, nonplussed, tried to quiet him and find out what was wrong.

"I hate music," Beckon sobbed out, over and over. "I _hate _music."

Everyone thought it was just a normal breakdown (those weren't exactly uncommon) until Echo walked in on him teetering nervously on the edge of a chair later that night, a twisted strip of torn sheet wrapped around his neck and fastened to the ceiling fan in his room.

Like an orchid, Aris muses, under the treads of a tank. A beautiful, musical, delicate mind, trampled by the outrageously high demands of this institution.

What she wants to do is stay in her own room, to avoid the whispers and covert scrutiny, but doing so will only encourage rumors (and, Aris thinks in some secret, paranoid compartment of her mind, maybe make them true, though she doesn't _think _she could ever kill herself; she climbed up on the bathroom counter after showering this morning with a second mirror in hand, examining her skin centimeter by centimeter to make _absolutely sure _there are no birthmarks or blemishes that she hasn't noticed before that might be an indicator of bad luck or an unhappy destiny—she may have been transplanted in Winchester but she still remembers what her mother taught her of _Samudrikashastra, _back when she had a long, beautiful name and not a lone, unlucky letter). So she makes sure she is seen out and about, acting as normally as she can under the circumstances.

She'd never admit it, but Aris considers briefly whether or not she should ask Roger to change her alias. That would be stupid, though. The open spots in the alphabet above her, E and F and T, are no luckier—after all, they're open because they got erased too. Taking the next letter in the new alphabet would be as good as a demotion. Everyone would know she's scared, scared of a silly rumor. She can't lose face like that, not in the House, where any public sign of weakness is an invitation for enemies to strike. And anyway, taking a new letter won't change the fact that she's A.

Aris knows, like most of the students, she hasn't got a chance of ever succeeding L, not unless tragedy strikes both Near and Mello. But she's determined (clings to the hope, eyes shut and shaking) that this place is _not_ going to break her like it broke Beckon, cursed letter or not.

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**AN: **_Samudrikashastra: _an Indian tradition of divination, which honestly I don't know much about. Wiki it or something._  
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	4. Itch

**AN: This one you definitely need to have read at least up through the second chapter of SotF, because this slots right into the plot of that story. Incidentally, these aren't in any sort of thematic or chronological order. This particular ficlet takes place about a month and a half after the New Year that Mello turns eight and Near turns six.**

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4: Itch

Near wakes abruptly, eyes snapping open and heart pounding in his throat.

Breaking the surface of full consciousness scatters the details of the nightmare like pieces of frosted glass, disjointed and hazy, but it's one he knows he's had many times before. The echoing silence, the empty halls and rooms, and the empty yards and streets, the entire planet empty except for him –

Until a few weeks ago, Near had forgotten about the nightmare, it had been so long since he'd had it; but now it's back. It leaves him feeling unsettled and just the littlest bit panicky, that little bit of a cold itch at the tips of his fingers and in his belly that he gets when things start to go in a way other than what he's expected.

He sits up, shivering a little. He's fallen asleep on the floor again. Feeling around carefully in the near-pitch black cavern of his room, Near finds the computer, blinking at the sudden blue-bright flash of the screen, checks the time. It's nearly four-thirty in the morning. Everyone is asleep (or at least locked up in their rooms) except the kitchen staff, who will be up and about by now to start the gears of the House in motion.

Very little gets by Constance, head chef at the House. Raising six sons single-handedly has a way of sharpening the senses, and a lifetime of running everything from soup kitchens to five-star hotel restaurants only hones them. The instant Near's tiny, tousled head peeks around the doorway, the sturdy old woman has noticed him and is already consulting a mental list of all the breakfast-related tasks a boy his size and age can be put to with a reasonable chance of not accidentally chopping his fingers off or getting stepped on.

She's also getting rather bent out of shape with the powers that be, because this is not the first time this particular child has shown up in the dark chill of predawn in the last few weeks, looking forlorn and pathetic and like he needs something but doesn't believe he'll get it if he asks.

Constance shoots a pursed-lip look at one of her assistants, and he shrugs helplessly in response, making a quick W shape with his fingers. _Watari's rules. No exceptions._

Near watches this exchange between the two Grown-Ups with resentment. He doesn't like that they seem to think just because he's little he can't see their sneaky gestures, and he doesn't like that even though he sees it he doesn't know what message is being communicated. He's got a nagging gut feeling that everyone knows a secret he doesn't, something beyond the usual "it's a Grown Up thing" stuff, something that sly questions and eavesdropping have failed thus far to uncover, something that they have been keeping from him ever since Mello started saying that he didn't have time to play with him anymore. Now he acts just like the Dukes, always busy studying and working and worrying about his grades even though he's always done well, too Grown-Up to "waste time with _kids"_ like Near. Near supposes dubiously that that could just be part of Grown Upping, but he can't help but think bitterly that Mello should have waited for _him _before he decided to Grown Up.

He only has a moment to ponder these injustices before he's swept up into the momentum of the kitchen. Constance doesn't tolerate loitering.

"Up again this time o' the mornin?" The old woman beckons him in, not waiting for a response; she knows by now he won't give one. "Don't stand there poutin', lad, I've got a job for you."

The prospect of being put to work is distasteful, but anything is better than the echoing silence and emptiness of the rest of the House. Near drifts sluggishly in her wake and allows Constance to scrub his hands and hoist him up onto a stool (she puts a box on top, because even on the tall stool the counter is too high for him to reach).

"Take this rosemary and remove the leaves from the stems," the chef instructs, producing what Near figures has to be several bushes' worth of the stuff and piling it in front of him. Taking a sprig of it, she demonstrates, stripping the stem in one smooth motion. "Like this, see? Put them in this bowl."

Near nods, sighing to himself, and picks up one of the smallest stems. Satisfied, Constance bustles off briskly to bark orders at someone else. Drawing one socked foot up onto his box, he starts plucking the needle-like leaves of rosemary one at a time and dropping them listlessly into the bowl.

It's not fun by any stretch of the imagination, but the repetitive hand motions and the sounds of the three or four other people in the kitchen murmuring amongst themselves, clattering dishes quietly, chopping vegetables, and running the faucet on and off makes the cold itchiness go away, as he knew it would. The kitchens are sterilely clean, all brushed stainless steel and gleaming white tile, which Near likes; and it's also warm, almost cozy. The sharp green aroma of rosemary clings to his fingers and the appetizing smells of baking bread and brewing coffee spread through the room as the dark windows lighten to grey.

"Paran, there you are. Pots don't wash themselves, y'know."

Near glances up through his fringe. Looking cross and rubbing at his eyes groggily, Paran shuffles into the kitchen, Constance prodding him toward the big sinks at the back of the kitchen. He must be on morning dish duty in punishment for something or other. Serves him right. Disregarding rules is one thing, but getting caught? Tch. P hasn't been at the House as long as Near, but he's older by a good two years. He ought to know better. Near has already decided he's not very smart.

The older boy aims an openly questioning look at him, which he ignores. He isn't interested in what P might think about why Near is in the kitchen. _He's _not in trouble. A tiny smile curls the corner of his mouth. He knows where the lines are and how to toe them when the matron is watching. Not like Mello, who until his recent obsession with studying always seemed to have the worst luck in that regard.

…Now, there's a thought.

Winding a bare rosemary stem idly around one finger, Near examines the idea that is unfolding in his mind. It would not be very difficult at all to prod Mello to lash out. Maybe if he gets upset enough, he'll let something slip, and Near will discover what this sudden change in his attitude and personality is really all about—what made him decide to Grown Up so suddenly.

"How are things going over here?" Constance says, coming to inspect his (lack of) progress. Over the last half hour he's only gotten through three sprigs of rosemary. Looking up, Near shrugs.

"So I see," the old woman says, shaking her head. "Here, lad." He accepts the scone she offers him (it's oven-warm in his hands and crusty-soft, curranty and sweet) and patiently allows her to catch him under the arms and set him back on the ground. Then Constance leans down as though she intends to try to give him a hug, and while being picked up and moved around like some kind of doll can be excused for practical reasons, Near definitely can't think of a reason why this kind of interaction is necessary, so he steps back to avoid the encircling arms.

"Thank you," he says almost inaudibly and not meeting her eyes, then turns and to wander out. Paran glances up from the sudsy, pan-filled sink as he passes, clearly envious and out of sorts; Near makes sure to return the look with a smirk.

He's feeling a lot better than he was when he woke up. He wonders if Mello is up yet.


	5. Box Seats

**AN: This one is probably a little more fun and a little less on the vaguely depressing side...**

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5: Box Seats

Confrontation is a little more effort than Matt is willing to exert. When he finally decides the intermittent popping sounds from Crash's side of their shared wall probably won't be stopping any time soon, his first solution is to put on his headphones. When the volume is turned up so high he's starting to get a migraine, he tries playing one trance mix on the speakers and a different one on the headphones to create a more effective wall of white noise. When even that doesn't mask the sound, and the popping is joined by a shrill whirring, Matt gives up on trying to focus on his kernel-programming homework and tries to zone out with a game that doesn't take much concentration, hoping the racket will just sort of wash over him. It doesn't.

Shrugging to himself, Matt reflects that he's starting to crave a cigarette anyway, so he shoves a half-full pack into his back pocket, checks the locks on his door, and climbs out the window. With one foot on the sill and the other wedged in a gap where he knocked out a brick for this purpose, he levers himself up and over the gutter.

Devon is already on the roof, sitting cross-legged on a folded sheet. D, who has the misfortune of living on the other side of Crash's room, is not so easy-going. He had tried kicking the adjoining wall a few times, without response, then stormed out into the hall to tap, then knock, then bang on the door. When the noise finally paused long enough for him to demand that it stop indefinitely, the only reply was,

"Shuddup, I tryin'a _work!"_

"So am I!" D had retorted, but it was drowned out by another cracking pop.

"One'a these days, that bitch gonna blow alla this place sky high," he gripes, tapping the end of his own cigarette carefully away from his sheet and wrinkling his nose in disapproval as Matt sprawls out right on the dirty, slightly rain-damp roof.

"Sounds fun," Matt says, cupping a gloved hand around the lighter to protect it from the late evening breeze.

"If by 'fun', you mean '_not_ fun'." A few strands of hair blow across Devon's forehead, and he quickly smooths them back into place, frowning.

Grunting noncommittally in response, Matt tilts his head back and lets out a long stream of smoke. Then they both flinch as a particularly loud _pop _rattles the window.

"Rewind that," D mutters. "She blow us all up, _if _Ma Marta don' bump her first."

"If you say so."

"Honestly, M. You too tolerant of all this _blakabaka._" The other boy rolls his eyes theatrically. "Guess that's no surprise, you hang out with _Mello_, after all."

Matt shrugs. This one-sided conversation is boring him, but the pops from below are growing progressively louder, and he's beginning to think D might be right about Crash blowing them all to kingdom come. "S'not that bad."

"Phhhf, he _is _that bad," D sniffs. "He prolly get you blowed up without any of this warning sounds."

"He not boring," M says, as though that settles the matter (which for Matt, it does).

He is rescued from Devon's inevitable condescending reply by a muffled _BANG _from below, followed quickly by the _shhhhk _of the window being shoved open, a giant puff of pale smoke billowing over the edge of the roof, and Crash's coughing as she sticks her head out into the fresh night air. Matt laughs so hard he ends up choking on a lungful of cigarette smoke and joining in her hacking fit. D sighs long-sufferingly.

"Planning the Apocalypse in there, little C?" Matt calls out.

"Oh, 'ello," Crash says (a little hoarsely), poking her head up over the edge. Her fringe and eyebrows are a bit singed, and the red outline of her safety goggles stands out vividly on her cheeks and forehead even in the dark. "Nah, just term project. Apocalypse later."

"For Waddell, _da_?" Matt grins appreciatively. "Don't sound like the kinda project he ask for."

"Bleh. Waddle cuz 'e got a stick up 'is butt," says Crash, propping her elbows up on the gutter. "This wake 'im up. If I get it right, anyways. Not quite there yet. Eh." She runs an exploratory finger over what's left of her eyebrow, going momentarily cross-eyed. "Oopsa."

"You lookin' like a barbarian," D tells her loftily, smoothing his glossy black locks again.

"You lookin' like a baboon butt," C returns, picking a scrap of recently exploded something out of her own hair and examining it.

"Well, you—" Devon starts, and Matt cuts him off lazily. "Make out or shut up."

"'e wouldn' like that, I'd mess up 'is pretty 'air and 'e'd 'ave to spend all that extra time at the mirror fixin' it," Crash points out, and Devon scowls, flushing slightly. "Already takes what, ten kazillion years in the bathroom alla every morning. We'd never see him no more."

"Nothing wrong with taking care of your appearance," he says with dignity. "Not that it would make a difference for _you_."

"You such a girl."

They're interrupted by pounding from inside.

"_Crash! Young lady, come open zis door before I—"_

Devon raises his eyebrows coolly, and Matt lounges back, grinning, to enjoy the show that's about to play out.

"I _comin', _Marta, 'ave some _patience_, I tryin'a observe _proper safety procedure _'ere!" Crash bellows back, then rolls her eyes at the boys. "Sorry, can't play no more, Momma's callin' for dinner."

"Sound more like dishes to me," D says smugly. "At least a week in the pit."

"Go sit on a spike, D," C says sweetly, salutes, and disappears.

The two boys smoke in silence, listening with interest from their safe perch as Marta's scolding and Crash's outrageous explanations and excuses ring out the window below. It's pleasantly cool, the stars are starting to come out, Devon has finally shut up, and the soft rustling of the trees provides an entertainingly incongruous backdrop to the yelling.

Crossing his arms behind his head, Matt relaxes and lets it all just wash over him.


	6. Vigil

**AN: This one takes place the night after the A/B fiasco.**

* * *

6: Vigil.

After all the chaos and horror and tumbling confusion of the last 24 hours, the dark velvet silence of another night feels like a grave.

Usually watching the Weather Channel helps Hopper relax. Tonight it doesn't, so he tries studying to keep his mind occupied. It's futile. He keeps losing his place in his reading, his overdeveloped brain wandering away from the matter of projectile physics and into darker imaginings of what has been done with Alt's body—whether he has already been packed away beneath damp black soil, or is still lying blue and waxy somewhere in the House…one of the labs, perhaps, or the groundskeeper's shed.

Catching himself dazing into another morbid reverie, he finally gives up. Classes are probably going to be canceled for a few days anyway, and no one else is in much of a state to study either. Watari arrived late in the afternoon to start putting things back in order but his mere presence can't fix what happened. The brass are shell-shocked. The manager's been sacked. Concord and Dex are going to be in the infirmary for a couple days at least. Jitter was the first to have a nervous breakdown. Hopper's sure he won't be the last.

Sneaking down to the infirmary to see them, he tells himself, isn't a sign of weakness. He's going to go because they're probably scared and upset. The fact that he is too is unrelated. He checks the sky and the radar one more time (both are clear), and slips out, locking the door behind him.

The hall lights are on and if he is still, he can hear the muffled voices and footsteps of the brass moving about downstairs. He eases along slowly, so as not to alert them to the sound of creaking floorboards. No one will scold him for being up past curfew, not tonight, but if he has to sit through yet another session with the new head-shrinker asking if he wants to talk about his feelings he really is going to snap.

He's concentrating so hard on moving quietly that he can clearly hear the soft sound of crying as he passes Linda's door.

Hopper taps lightly on the door and opens it. Linda, the youngest of all of them, immediately turns her back to him, wiping at her eyes and cheeks quickly as though she can hide the tears and red blotchiness.

H has never seen her cry before. It strikes him for the first time that if his little sisters were still alive, Lin would be the same age as the third eldest. That thought is not particularly welcome in his present state of mind, so he examines the paintings on the wall as though they interest him while she attempts to compose herself.

"I gonna visit C and D," Hopper tells a large watercolor of a gazebo overlooking a lily pond. "Make sure they ok."

"Ok," Linda says shakily, still scrubbing uselessly at her eyes as she rolls off the bed. Despite her efforts fresh tears track down her cheeks.

What the hell, Hopper thinks, after all, we were all _something_ before we were letters, and A is dead. We can all be rivals later. So he picks her up and carries her, like he used to carry Rebecca and Naomi when they got tired of walking, and damn he misses them as Linda cries into his shoulder.

Quiet murmurs hush immediately as he pushes open the door to the infirmary.

"It's just Hop," Dex whispers, and they stop pretending to be asleep.

Unsurprisingly, it looks like Even was having trouble sleeping too; she's sitting at the foot of Concord's bed, her face wan and exhausted in the moon-washed dim of the room. Jitter's here as well, in a bed of his own. Evidently they couldn't calm him and Verity resorted to putting him in a rolly-wrap. Judging by how little he's shifting around, he's probably been sedated.

"How's about a rolly-wrap?" he asks Linda, who is showing no sign that she wants to let go, and she nods shame-facedly. None of them ever wants to admit it, but few things feel as safe and comforting as a couple hours securely cocooned in a blanket.

E gets up to help, and together they wind a sheet from one of the spare beds around the smaller girl, pinning her arms and legs. "You all patched?" Hopper asks C and D while they work. If they're still here at the House infirmary and not the Winchester hospital, he thinks, they must not be hurt too bad

_(though it looked awful, B's haphazard slashing and jabbing with that stolen kitchen knife, the way he laughed when Concord stared down at her bloody nightshirt like she couldn't process what had happened)_

"I won. Fifteen stitches to C's twelve," Dex says, and he sounds like he's trying to be funny and wishes as soon as it comes out of his mouth that he hadn't bothered.

"We all fall down," Jitter mumbles. "Ashes and posies."

"No one else gonna die, J," Dex tells him firmly.

"You don't know that," says E.

"I'm cold," J whispers.

"Don't leave me alone," Linda says as they start to tuck her into a bed. She seems a little calmer now, in the restricting embrace of the rolly-wrap, but she struggles to sit up.

"Bring her over here," Dex says. "We can push the beds together."

"You stay put, don't wanna rip them stitches," H tells C as she starts to get up to help. Hopper and Even pick Linda up and settle her in next to Concord, then freeze as the infirmary door creaks open.

It's Gao this time, looking just as terrible as all of them feel. He looks around at the group and observes, "Sleepover _shi ma_?"

"Come join the party," Jitter giggles, shifting restlessly in his rolly-wrap. "It's cold."

"Help me move them beds," says H. The three beds are rolled together to form one wide mattress, the legs bound together with some athletic tape that G nicks from the first aid cabinet. After another quick check out the window (the sky is still clear) and some hesitation, Hopper crawls in between E and J.

He hasn't been this physically or emotionally close to other people since before he had a letter. Warm bodies press close on either side and the drowsy sounds of fabric shifting and breathing and nearly silent crying reminds him more than ever of family. Out of nowhere he wonders what happened to the farm, if the fields are still being plowed and planted, if the barn is still standing, if anyone ever rebuilt the house.

Later, when things go back to normal, they all might regret this show of vulnerability, but Hopper has a feeling things will never go back to the way they were. It all—letters, the House, L—it can't be like it was again. He is reminded of the sports of ancient civilizations, where the losing team was sacrificed to the gods. Before, it was exciting. They were kids that could outsmart the system, and if they proved that they were the best, one of them would be Chosen to save the world and show that any evil and any opponent could be conquered by their brilliant intellects and righteous justice. Now...

Two days ago they were gods, Hopper thinks, but now they've learned they're not immortal.

"This game isn't fun anymore," E whispers, echoing his thoughts.

"It gonna be ok," Dex hushes her. "L gonna catch him and make him pay."

Even's body trembles; she might be crying. "It cuz of L that Alt's dead," she says softly. "You ever think maybe he the bad one?"

"…No," G says finally, when nobody else replies. "L not bad. Maybe not good either. But if there was no L, where are we?"

_On the streets, _Hopper answers silently, _in foster homes, orphanages. Probably mental institutions, some of us. Outside with the wormbait. _

"There's bad people everywhere," he says out loud. "It could have happened anywhere. People been killing each other long time before B was around. Otherwise there wouldn't be an L."

"All the king's horses and all the king's men can't fix him again," Jitter says to himself.

No one answers. Eventually Hopper dozes off into uneasy dreams about storm-flattened alfalfa fields and kitchen knives and children chasing monsters.

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**AN: regarding rolly-wraps - this is for real, though they're not called that. Being wrapped up tightly in a blanket has been shown to be soothing to babies and people with insomnia or sensory integration problems.**

**_shi ma?_ - (Chinese) Is it?/Is that what this is?  
**


	7. Inches

**AN: In case anyone is interested, I put up a quick scribble of some of the more developed OCs from this collection in the DN folder of my dA gallery (sarapsys . deviantart . com)**

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7: Inches

Jeffrey Timmons would give almost anything to see his parents.

It's weird. Two weeks ago he wouldn't have believed it. His mother was always traveling for work, selling fancy lotions and facial creams, and his dad…well, it was obvious that his dad thought he was a freak.

Bad enough that the kids at school treated him like alien with an infectious disease (which made no sense; _they _were the ones who were ignorant and strange and incurious), but his father was on a mission to fix him, always finding new "special" tutors and psychological tests, tedious and never-ending. Every time his father caught him with the ruler, he would frown and get that frustrated look, that look asked where he had gone wrong to end up with a son like him.

If you asked Jeffrey (which no one ever did) his parents were the ones with the problems, sleep-walking through a marriage that even their nine-year-old son could see had been crushed by the combined weight of her ambition and his perfectionism years ago, too scared to leave each other and too proud to honestly try to make it work. His mom found a way to escape and his dad projected his issues onto his son.

No, a few weeks ago he would have jumped at a chance to escape his family.

They're gone now, though, and he'll never see them again. Everything is gone, even the name Jeffrey Timmons, which he's been told not to use anymore. The only remotely familiar thing is the tape measure he managed to swipe. The weight of it in his pocket is a small comfort as he is whirled through strange cars and planes and buildings by strange people, whirls through more tests like the ones his dad used to make him take, more cars and buildings, and then a study where a tired-looking old man tells him he's reached the end of the whirling and that if he works hard and excels in his studies, he might inherit the title of the greatest detective on earth.

By this point he's long past the limit of new unmeasured spaces he can handle in a day. Most of what he's told is tuned out as white noise while he fingers the edges of the tape measure and waits numbly for the time that he can use it.

When the tired old man and the big Russian woman are done talking at him, he is shown a room that he is told is his (whoever _he _is, since he's not Jeffrey anymore, he has a new name that fits like new Sunday shoes and he isn't sure he likes it but as usual no one has asked him) and is left alone to sort himself out.

Finally.

First he measures the room itself, side to side to side and top to bottom; then every door and doorframe, the diameter of the doorknobs, the distance between the doorknob and every edge of the door, the window and each pane and the windowframe and sill, then every splinter of furniture and the height of the shelves and hanger pole in the closet and every measurement he can think of on every single object in the room, from the computer to the sheets to the ceiling fan to the electric sockets; he writes them all down in neat columns and then calculates volumes and angles and distances until he _knows_ this space and how he fits in it.

Then he crawls into bed fully clothed with the lights still on, pulls the sheets over his head, and mentally recalculates all those measurements again and again and again.

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he's abruptly woken by hands seizing his wrists and ankles and thick fabric being pulled tight over his face.

At first he is too startled to struggle. Then he decides to play dead, because there are at least three of them, and struggling is unlikely to help. It's not long, just a quick trip down the hall, and they set him down again and remove the fabric from his face. It makes no difference, because it's pitch black.

"English?" a voice whispers in his ear.

"I speak English," he says, "but I'm not English, I'm—"

A hand claps over his mouth before he can finish the sentence. "Never tell where you from. You in the House now. Outside doesn't matter no more."

They're kids' voices. He hasn't met any of the other students yet, though he's had glimpses of them through cracked doorways. He's never much liked kids his own age, who don't understand anything and call him names and leave him out of their games. If what the tired old man said was true, these kids won't be like those kids. Under the circumstances, though, he's not convinced different necessarily means better, and a cold little finger of fear tickles the back of his neck.

The hand leaves his mouth. There is a clattering of computer keys in the darkness, and the dim glow of a monitor washes the faces of the children ringed around him with its eerie light. He can't see the walls in the dark, can't guess at the size of the room. His chest feels tight, and he anxiously rubs the corner of the tape measure still in his pocket. "What do you want?"

"To make this fast so we can get back to sleep," says the girl sitting across from him, who looks vaguely Middle Eastern but has a British accent. "My letter Q for Qarri."

"R for Rom," says the boy with dark curly hair, and the small Asian girl is "X for Xie".

"We draw the short sticks so we your welcome committee, fishie. You know your letter?" says Qarri.

"My name…my letter is Zane. Z. Z for Zane."

"Congratulations. You the last letter in our alphabet," says X for Xie.

He doesn't like having a letter and not a name. It feels like a lie. He wants his old name back. He wants to pull the tape measure out of his pocket and clutch it in his hands. He wants to know how far away the walls and ceiling are, needs to know how tall Q and X and R stand, because letters tell him exactly nothing about them.

"No cry. Don't let no one see you cry," R for Rom admonishes him.

"New kiddies get three days slack, almost anyone gonna help you screw you head on straight. After that, you tie you own shoes. Warden Roger explain what this House for, _da_?"

He's having a little bit of trouble following what Q is saying. She talks faster than anyone he's ever met. "Erm…he said that they are looking for a replacement to the detective L."

"Right," says the girl, and there are quick smirks and stifled snickers. "Well forget all that _blakabaka_. We tell you the House rules. First one: the brass gonna lie if they think they get away with it, an' don't tell us nothing if they don't."

'Warden' Roger told him a lot of rules, like no running in the halls and no hitting, but he failed to mention any of these. They're less like rules and more like a verbal tour of this bizarre place.

For instance, teasing about others' therapy is taboo. "Everybody here a genius, everybody got they own crazy. Alla everybody gotta get they head tuned," Q says. "You don't poke about tuning and nobody poke you back."

They explain about the Crusties (not to be antagonized) and the Twins (best avoided).

"M and N aren't _actually _twins," R interjects. "But suppose'ly they brought together, see? But don't you call them Twins to their face or M probl'y kill you dead."

And speaking of the Twins,

"They the Warden's favorite. If one'a them isn't picked for L, you can scrub my letter," X mutters.

"Then why does—then why anyone want to stay?"

Q, R, and X exchange glances.

"Not supposed to talk about when we were Outside," Qarri finally says, leaning forward and lowering her voice confidentially. "But you on slack days, fishie, so I tell you. Maybe Outside there were some wormbaits that you liked, you family or friends, maybe. Maybe not. But were you one'a them?"

"No," Rom and Xie answer for him. Rom continues, "The wormbait think we're freaks. 'Oooh, this liddle kid he so smart, so special', they say, but really they thinkin' 'scary, sick in the head, gotta fix 'em up'. And they lie but you know better, cuz you _are _smart."

"In the House, everybody crazy smart," Xie says. "Always someone crazier than you. Everybody gets it. You can play games and not hafta hold back cuz you might get called freak. Nobody treat you like a bitty baby that don't understand."

He digests this for a moment, then reaches hesitantly into his pocket, pulls out the tape measure. Turns it over in his hands, taps each corner once then measures his palms while he thinks. The other three watch, but don't seem to think anything of it.

"So if they go in alphabetical order and I'm Z, there are—there only 26 of us?"

Their faces darken in the dim light. "No," says Qarri. "Only 23. A, B, and E all gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone. Scrubbed," says Xie, when Q doesn't answer.

"What's that mean, scrubbed?" That little cold finger of fear is back, tracing his spine. For the first time, the other three letters look uneasy.

"Everybody got their crazy, but gotta keep it tuned. If the crazy control you, your letter get scrubbed. Erased. Back to the Outside," Qarri says.

His chest contracts, and he holds tightly to the tape measure. It's all rather a lot to take in, and his parents are dead and his name is gone. But he knows the exact dimensions of his room, and though he hardly knows the three letters in front of him, he finds that he feels more of a kinship with them than any of the kids at his old school. There's a certain look in their eyes, a tension in the way they hold themselves—they're watching, and thinking, calculating and measuring.

They're like him.

"Can I measure you height?" he tests.

"What you gonna use that information for?" Rom asks, but he doesn't sound creeped out, just suspicious.

"I just need to know how tall you are."

Qarri shrugs carelessly, and they all stand up.

"Don't touch," Xie warns, flinching a little as he pulls the tape measure straight and holds it by her head, squinting at the little numbers in the dim light. None of them asks why they're doing this, though Qarri does tell him to hurry it up so they can all go back to bed as he's taking a second measurement to double-check. Q, R, and X are 52.6, 54.0, and 46.3 inches tall respectively.

He's still a bit numb and overwhelmed, but Z is starting to think he would give almost anything not to be scrubbed.


	8. Drive

8: Drive

"Mello. Mello."

He's so, so tired; sleep drags at him like dust-clogged cobwebs and his head and arms feel like they haven't moved in a hundred years. Someone is tapping insistent fingers on the desk

(they're all so well trained, the brass monkeys of the House, they're not to touch any of the children red-flagged as having been abused without appropriate warning and/or permission)

and it knocks insistently at his ear where it's pressed to the oak desktop.

"Mello, wake up. If you want to sleep, you'll be far more comfortable in bed."

"No," he mumbles, propping his elbows up and forcing his gaze back on the computer screen. "I'm not sleeping. I'm studying."

"The computer fell asleep fifteen minutes after you did," says Addison, the House librarian. Even as he's saying it slowly occurs to Mello that what he's looking at is not a journal article comparing studies on sociopathic behavior, but a screen saver.

Mello's ears heat, and he can practically hear the librarian silently judging him for his weakness, despite how well he hides it behind that tackily painted façade of concern.

"Mello, you've been in here for seven hours. It's long past curfew," Addison says gently

(scornfully)

"I'm certain you're well prepared for the psych exam. Go to bed."

"I'm not done studying," Mello snaps, jiggling the mouse so that the screen saver disappears and the article comes back up. It's an essay test, and you can never ever be too ready for an essay test; there's always some tiny detail that could have been added, some example that would better illustrate a point. Details and examples that Near selects and includes with infallible instinct, and which Mello always fails to handle perfectly. His gaze flicks up automatically to see how much farther he has to read. He's on page 12 of 85. He wants to cry.

"Tell you what. Why don't I print this off for you, you can take it back to your room and finish reading it when you're a little more rested."

"The exam is first thing in the morning," Mello says, scanning the top paragraph on the page. It seems vaguely familiar. He thinks he's read it already. No, he knows he's read it already. He skips down the page until he finds a bit that he doesn't recognize.

"Mello." The screen suddenly goes black; the librarian has turned off the monitor. Outraged, Mello turns on him.

"What, am I inconveniencing you here? I'm just trying to study! It's a pretty typical activity in libraries, I should think you'd be familiar with it—"

"You've been dozing off and on for the last forty minutes," Addison says patiently

(patronizingly)

"I'm sure you'll perform much better on the test if you get some proper sleep beforehand."

Mello glowers at the man through his fringe. Addison looks nothing at all like his father; he's tall and storkish with round spectacles and a shock of hair that's silvering even though he's not that old, where Rodrick Keehl was broad-shouldered and broad-jawed, with heavy-knuckled paws built for cuffing people around and mean little blue eyes that burned through the thatch of his hair. Mello doubts this pasty scholar has ever hit another person in his life. He doubts he would even know how. He'd probably end up hurting his hand if he tried. Somehow, though, when Mello imagines what the librarian is thinking right now, it's Rodrick's voice that he hears.

_It doesn't matter how long you study_, the spectacled eyes seem to be saying. _It still won't be good enough. You might as well give up._

Straightening his back, Mello stares back, willing himself to be alert and awake. "I'm fine," he says coolly.

With a poorly suppressed sigh and a fixed smile, Addison gives up.

"If you say so," he says, as Mello switches the monitor back on. "Shall I call down to the kitchens to get you something to eat, at least?"

"No," says Mello curtly. Resentment scalds his veins, making his ears burn scarlet and helping him focus. He feels awake now—leaden and scaly-eyed, but awake. "I don't need anything."

Twenty minutes later the librarian comes back, quietly setting a steaming cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows at his elbow. It smells heavenly. Mello pretends it isn't there, and keeps reading.


	9. Fix

**AN: This one may be a little difficult/confusing to read, for which, given the subject, I do not apologize.**

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9: Fix

It's like holding back a sneeze. Except with his whole body. He knows better than to try to quash it down—Bull rags on and on about that, how if he would practice the relaxation techniques he's been taught it will train his brain and muscles and the tic will lessen but it's just _not that easy _to relax like that when what he feels like doing is leaping up and ricocheting off the walls and the more he thinks about how he's supposed to be relaxing the more he tenses up and the more it builds and then it crests and he _twitches _and then can relax a little and he wants to scream, it's so frustrating, but instead of screaming Jitter lets out a strained giggle.

Usually the _twitch _is not as bad as it is tonight but the history final exam is tomorrow and Jitter knows he understands all the material and remembers all the names and dates and documents but somehow establishing that bridge between what's stored in his head and that blank space on the paper almost always seems to end in disaster. Bridge fails. Floods ensue. Crops destroyed, harvest fails, population starves. No, the metaphor doesn't hold. Bridges, not dams. Dead end road. Trade rerouted. All roads lead to Rome only as long as the roads are intact.

"No mail from Africa for Caesar," is his final muttered conclusion. _Twitch._

"Caesar prob'ly never read him own mail anyhow," Fallon responds dully. "He prob'ly got a secretary."

Jitter giggles a little at the mental image that immediately springs to mind of Caligula's advisor Incitatus sitting at a desk, typing busily away. However, despite the nanosecond of distraction provided by the amusing idea of a horse attempting to use a keyboard, F's reassurance is pretty unhelpful because regardless of what Rome's situation was when the roads were down Jitter can't delegate the history exam to someone else—quite the contrary, everyone else is fighting to outscore everyone else and this is one area that he knows is hardly worth the stress and hysteria that will ensue because regardless of the thoroughness of his actual crystallized knowledge, his own physiology and psychopathology hamstring _his _horse right out of the gate. _Twitch. _He's never understood the impulse behind gambling on horse races, any more than he understands how sitting still for two hours and making marks in memorized patterns with a piece of graphite encased in wood on a bit of dried tree pulp tells anyone about his knowledge of the myriad and complex social, political, and economic variables that made up the gem-wire-thread tangle of the World Wars or how lying on his back thinking about stupid things like drops of water falling in pools is going to have any effect on this bloody _twitch._

Fallon watches lifelessly from where he's sprawled on the floor as J finally gives in to the pressure that's been crushing his limbs for nearly twenty whole unbearable seconds and jumps up again, pacing frantically from wall to wall. It's after curfew and F should technically be in his own room but Ma Marta never fusses too bad unless they're causing a racket or larking around in the halls and it's not like they're losing sleep anyway. The only way Jitter figures he's going to spend any time not wide awake between now and the history exam is if he's either sedated or thunked over the head with something heavy, and the lamotrigine that Bull recently prescribed for Fallon apparently gives him insomnia on top of the zits and general feeling of shittiness.

With a sigh that sounds like it was wrenched agonizingly from the depths of his soul or something similarly melodramatic, F flops an arm over to pick through the bulky textbooks embedded in one of the many piles of junk strewn about the floor. "Algebra, trig or calc?"

"Trig, trig trig trig," Jitter says, relieved and eager and more than a little ashamed that his agitation is so obvious, and he probably wouldn't even be able to bear accepting Fallon's help if it weren't for the fact that F is on mood stabilizers and he's not anymore and surely surely that means on some level that is somehow meaningful to the brass that Jitter isn't the craziest one in the House, and because F is doing this more do distract himself from how lousy _he_ feels than out of any sense of altruism, not to mention that J's restlessness is probably annoying him. And trigonometry is Jitter's absolute favorite, he loves triangles and ratios and the tip and balance and tension of points and lines, give and take and lean and pull; perhaps he should point that out to Bull, that a battery of math problems is a far more effective relaxant than stupid drops falling in stupid pools and whatever other worthless garbage got stuffed into her stupid yuppie head in grad school. _Twitch._

"Mk…uh…." F opens the textbook to a random page. "One plus cosecant x all over cosecant x."

"Sine x, sine x," Jitter says immediately. "Too easy, pick a harder one. Pick an equation."

With another sigh, the other boy flips listlessly through the book. "'K. X between zero and two pi. Two x sine x equals x."

"Zero or pi over six or five pi over six." He makes a frenzied gesture with one hand. "Harder one."

Fallon humors him for nearly half an hour, by which point J is almost calm enough to sit down but he's supposed to push his limits so he _does _sit down and F tosses the book aside, draping his arm over his eyes and releasing the next of his seemingly endless supply of tortured sighs.

He's a lot more fun when he's manic, Jitter thinks, then instantly feels a little bad for thinking it because not so awful long ago Bull had him on pills too and he hated hated hated _twitch _the bloody little things and how tired and sick and irritable they made him feel and how they reminded him that he was somehow different and damaged and unable to be properly human without help so he almost apologizes then remembers he only thought it, didn't say it, and before that thought is quite over he thinks he should thank F for the trig problems and gets sidetracked thinking about thank-you cards and fruit baskets, isn't that a weird tradition, if someone gives back a gift in exchange for a gift is it really a gift and a thank-you or is it just a gift exchange with some time delay and since his mind was prepared a millisecond ago to say something but he's lost track of what it was what comes out at the end of it all is a nervous giggle.

"J," Fallon says, and he sounds exhausted, and Jitter can't really relate because he feels like he's going to explode out of his skin any second, with lightning snapping from his fingertips and static spewing from his mouth. The other boy almost cringes as he asks quietly, "Do they help? Is it…do you think they're making a difference?"

Jitter has a million answers and none of them seem like the right thing to say.


	10. Baby

**AN: *props chin on hand* ok, I don't like begging for reviews but I'm starting to feel like I'm throwing rocks in a black hole here. If anyone actually reads this and wants to humor me, write and say who your favorite—or least favorite, heck—character is so far, canon or not, and why.**

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10: Baby

The volume of the whispering two tables away is turned up ten notches the instant Hopper leaves the library study room. It prickles at Linda's concentration, distracting her from the algebra word problems she's struggling through. She almost—_almost—_regrets telling H that she doesn't need help, if only because the older boy's presence kept the noise level down to a respectful level.

Admittedly, Crash and Wiley have been murmuring together over their chemistry lab report for quite a while now, and Linda's focus on math was tenuous in the first place. But Hopper's cheerful offer of help has her feeling a little short-tempered, because he extended it _freely_, even served it up with a warm smile as though she were a favorite younger sibling and not a competitor. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had ruffled her hair to top it all off. You just don't _do_ that in the House, offering help for nothing, unless you have something to gain, or unless you're not taking that person seriously enough to worry that your assistance might give them an edge over you.

And Hopper's not the only one. Concord has offered in that reluctant, deer-in-headlights way of hers to listen when Linda has been stressed or out of sorts, Kae has offered her advice about boys even though she's not that interested in them yet, and even Jitter has offered to help her with math a dozen times despite the fact that he's just as terrible at explaining things as she is at algebra and he always spends half the impromptu lesson staring at her with that comical cock-eyed look of bewilderment that says he honestly doesn't get what all the fuss is about, because these equations are perfectly clear, aren't they? Which _really _doesn't help_._

What it comes down to is that among the Dukes, she's the baby.

And even the littler kids that came after the Twins, the late letters and the lower-case alphabet, seem to think so. True, some of them _are _as old as she is, but _still. _She's been here longer, and that should give her seniority. Nobody would dare make as much racket as W and little C are currently making if it were Dex and Hopper and Concord sitting here instead of Linda.

She glowers silently at the pair over her textbook. Either Crash has enough respect for Addison and Kendall that she's left the omnipresent matchbox behind or it's already been confiscated by one of the librarians, but even without the sharp scratching of matches being lit one after the other she manages to be annoying, tapping out a rapid tattoo on the table with her pencil. Wiley, the more introverted of the pair, isn't any better. With one hand she's idly scribbling down notations in the margins of the lab book but with the other she's holding her braid, the end of which is in her mouth. She bites her nails too, Linda knows, and she finds both habits disgusting. They're jabbering at each other half in English and half in French about their lab results (easily applying the very algebraic fundamentals that Linda is grappling with at the moment), not bothering at all anymore to keep their voices down, and it's driving her mad.

Finally she snaps. "Knock off that tapping, lil' C! And stop chewin' you hair, Wiley, that so gross."

Wiley just looks over her shoulder with wide, incredulous eyes (still gnawing on her braid), but Crash scoffs, snatching up another pencil and rapping out a quick drumbeat on the table. "'Oo put you in charge, eh? If you buggin' go work somewhere else."

"Issa library, I should be able'a study in here without this chit-chit-chit like a pack'a daft finches!"

"Oooofa, don't we got twisty knickers now. We not so chit-chit that Addison kickin' us out, so what you cryin' about? Quack off, bossy britches," Crash shoots back, grinning.

Linda regrets saying anything after all; little C enjoys nothing more than a bit flippant bickering, except maybe setting things on fire, and now she's getting flustered and it's showing. She just wants to do her algebra in peace. Is a little quiet and a bit of respect too much to ask? Now of course if she backs down it will be just that, backing down, and if she leaves it will be backing down, and if she keeps arguing she's not going to accomplish anything but entertain the brat. And eventually she'll end up backing down anyway because Crash could happily sit here batting petty insults for a zillion years.

For a few seconds Linda just hates everyone and wishes they would all leave her alone. Scowling, she hunches back over her wretched algebra homework. Whatever. She'll just pretend it never happened.

The younger girls aren't about to let it lie, though; she's barely reread the problem before a well-aimed rubber band zips right over the page and clips her wrist. "_But bon_," Crash whispers to Wiley, and they snicker quietly.

Linda closes her eyes and slowly clenches her jaw as a second flicked band skitters across her homework. She's backed herself into a corner now. If she retaliates then they've succeeded in getting to her. If she doesn't then she's chicken. And the longer it takes her to do something—

"Hey, Lin. Lil' C. W." says Dex, shambling into the study room. "Mind if I sit here?" With a resounding _thud _he drops a stack of ancient legal books onto the table, pulls out the chair across from her, flips it around and sits on it backward. Rubbing his short, spiky hair vigorously, the older boy (who is now between Linda and the other two girls) regards the large, flaking volumes with a complete lack of excitement. "Maths again, huh? Wanna swap? This gotta be the boring-est paper I ever gotta write."

She throws a glance over his shoulder at Crash and Wiley. W is chewing on her fingernail but they're murmuring quietly again, frowning over their lab report. The pencil tapping has stopped entirely.

"Nah," Linda mumbles, keeping her head down so D won't read the resentment on her face. "I got this handled."

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_**But bon: **_**French for 'nice aim', unless I totally biffed it, which is plausible since I've never studied French.**


	11. Santa Claus

11. Santa Claus

"It's not about justice," says the L-blazoned screen, and it's just like when Sember first realized that Santa Claus wasn't real, but so much worse, because Christmas Eve is just one night out of the year but he's been _living _in this fairytale for nearly four months.

Actually, maybe a better analogy would be if he was told that Batman and Superman and Spider-Man were all in it because they just liked punching people. He feels betrayed and disillusioned and even the littlest bit sick. L, _the _L, the solver of impossible crimes and rescuer of the downtrodden, the sword of justice itself against the evil world of crime, doesn't do it because it's right, but because he's bored?

S may only be eight, but he has a pretty firm idea of what he thinks is right and what is wrong. Helping people is right, and hurting people is wrong. He's not so sure about how L's way of doing things fits in.

Why is he even _here? _ Sember wonders.

He's depressed. It's three days later and it's still all he can think about. He really wants to talk to someone about L, but any time he says _anything _to Bull he feels like it's less of a conversation and more of a performance that she is analyzing and taking meticulous notes on whenever he doesn't get the script right. And the other kids…well, he'd _like_ very much to talk to them. They're all really smart, and they're fascinating to listen to, and they're in the same position he is. Sember's only been here a few months, though, and though he's forced himself to talk to a few of them, the prospect of approaching any of the handful he's exchanged shy 'good morning's with over breakfast and asking if they want to have a heart-to-heart about the purpose of their lives at the House is downright petrifying.

So instead he drags his blue blanket down to the common room and curls up in the windowseat by himself. It's quiet in there; the programming class meets this time of day, and a lot of the kids are taking it. Rom and Over are sprawled on the couch with their English dictionaries (neither of them are native speakers, but they're picking it up quickly) and holding a stilted but painstakingly grammatical debate over the literary qualities of Dostoyevsky, and Near is hunched in his usual spot on the floor, building some kind of wacky something-or-other of Tinkertoys. Hiding in his safe little fortress of fabric, Sember watches them out of the corner of his eye. A very tiny, daring part of him wishes that one of them would notice that he's troubled and ask what's wrong, but he knows he'd freeze up and just sit there stammering if they actually did.

After a while, Rom and Over leave, and he's left in the room with just Near. So S watches him instead.

He's awfully small, with tiny little fingers and eyes that are too big for his head, though Sember knows Near is the same age he is. He also knows that, like him, Near tends to lurk near of groups of people, close by but not really reaching out to anyone except Mello, who's never very nice to him. He's bold enough during class debates, on the other hand…. It doesn't seem like the same crippling fear that seizes Sember at the thought of talking to others affects N, but he's definitely isolated, and maybe a little shy, even. Sember finds himself feeling sympathetic toward the other boy, even wanting a little to talk to him. Neither of them has friends, but it's not because Sember doesn't want any. The same must be true of Near.

Deciding to speak up is a lot easier than following through.

That tense, cold-strap feeling tightens over his lungs. What if Near tells him to leave him alone? Right now it's just a sort of neutral silence, but if Sember says something and is rebuffed, then it'll get awkward. Worse yet, what if he doesn't reply at all, just ignores him, or gets up and leaves? Sember half wishes the other boy would go away before he gets up the nerve to speak just to take the decision out of his hands. His palms are getting clammy with anxiety. He holds his breath, then realizes he's doing it, and lets it out again slowly, counting to five. Then five count breathing in, five counts out. Yes, he's going to say something. In…five breaths. No, ten. …Fifteen.

This is ridiculous. He's never going to do it.

"Hey Near?"

Horrified, Sember almost claps a hand over his mouth, then shifts his blanket as an excuse for the reflexive movement, silently dying a little in mortification. It's too late to take it back. He briefly entertains the rather stupid idea of getting up and hurrying out, and pretending he never said anything.

Near doesn't look surprised or angry or scornful, though. Actually, he doesn't look anything. He's putting together some kind of contraption that looks like it might be a pulley when it's done, and his expression remains one of calm concentration, gaze fixed on his toys. "Yes?"

Great, now he has to somehow keep it up. Fighting the tightness of his throat, Sember opens his mouth a few times, then finally manages, "What—what you think of him? Of L, I mean?"

Still no change in Near's expression; he's not even looking up at Sember, which doesn't do much for his nerves. "Why you ask?"

Sember looks away too, staring out the window, and that actually helps a little. He wonders if that's why Near doesn't usually look at people when he talks to them. It's raining lightly, the sky is pearly grey and the trees are starting to put out knobbly buds—kind of a dead, depressing landscape, but working toward spring.

"I…." S swallows, twists the edge of his blanket. "He not what—what I…expect."

"You don't like him," Near clarifies.

That's something that is hard for Sember to get used to here, how he's not the only one who pays attention and reads between the lines, how everyone he meets just _understands _things whether he wants them to or not. "…Do you?"

"He interesting."

"So…not what you expect either."

"Expectations can be limiting."

Sember supposes that's true, if not at all helpful. "I guess I thought L was…better."

"Better?" For the first time something other than indifference tints the other boy's voice. He sounds dully incredulous, or maybe a tiny bit curious. "He the best at what he do."

"_Da_, but…." Sember struggles to put into words what he's thinking. "He…he do good, but not cuz he want to _be _good."

He steals a peek at Near. The other boy is sitting up now, staring back at him over the towers of his Tinkertoy construction. "L never say he good. Only that he the best."

Those flat grey eyes have an unnerving laser edge to them, as though they have the ability, if Near were to concentrate just a little harder, to peel back his face and drill through his skull to slice into his brain, vivisecting his thoughts. Sember looks away again quickly. "That doesn't…bother you?"

"L is L. He do what he want and answer to no one. If that bother you, you have no place in the succession."

"You _admire _him," S says, a little aghast, and a little afraid of this small boy who delivers such blunt pronouncements so coolly and matter-of-factly.

"You don't."

"I—I don't know," says Sember, because he thinks he'd rather die than be sent Outside and be passed again from foster home to foster home like football, he doesn't want to be scrubbed, no, but this just isn't sitting right with him. "Solving crimes supposed to help people. But if you solve it just for a game, and not to help…what stop you from hurting people to find you solution?"

"L does what he think necessary. If he right and the crime get solved, then that's that. He right, and it _was _necessary."

_So the ends justify the means? But what if he's wrong? Then what? _Sember thinks. His guts feel like something cold and slimy invaded his body and died in there. He doesn't think he and Near have that much in common after all. He's starting to think it's not N that avoids others, but others that avoid N. "Oh."

Near appears to be done with the conversation, and Sember has no desire to continue it. After several long, uneasy moments, he wraps the blanket more tightly around himself and tries not to walk too quickly out of the room.


	12. Schedule

**AN: I felt like these were getting a bit dark/angsty, so here's one to lighten things up...no real point, just bringing in yet more characters. As though I don't have enough already. Sorry if my Spanish sucks, I'm a bit rusty. Translations are below.  
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12. Schedule

Lazlo has a very strict morning routine.

First he wakes up, of course. Then he collects his thoughts for the few minutes before his alarm sounds, and turns it off. Then he folds back the covers in a precise triangle, climbs out of bed, goes across the hall to the bathroom, washes his hands, brushes his teeth, and washes his hands again.

Back to his room. Strips the bed and makes it, smoothing every tiny wrinkle and tucking in the corners and stacking the pillows neatly.

Back to the bathroom. Washes his hands, brushes his teeth, washes his hands.

Back to his room. Changes into the clean clothes he set out last night, carefully folding his pajamas and placing them in the laundry hamper. Then he strips the bed down and makes it again, this time placing a folded set of clean pajamas at the head before stacking the pillows on top.

Back to the bathroom. Same as above.

Back to his room. Turns on the computer and, while waiting for it to boot up, wipes down the screen, mouse, and keyboard with antibacterial cleaner.

It used to be that the routine continued on in this vein for another twenty minutes or so, back and forth and back and forth, tidy and quiet and minty, but now he's allied with—maybe friends with?—Karter. K is a whiz at math and science and Lo is good with languages and writing and actually, K can be really fun to hang out with when he's not freaking out so it's a good connection. It disrupts things a little, though, because K takes his routine pretty seriously too and they haven't quite lined up their schedules yet.

"Lo?!" Right on time, at 7:27 am on the dot, Lo can hear Karter's voice echoing off the tile walls of the bathroom. Not discovering his friend brushing his teeth or washing his hands as expected, he starts knocking insistently at his door. "Lo! Where you be?"

"Here, K!" Lo yells back, and sighs. Here they go again.

"What? What?" His door swings open and Karter leans in, hanging from the doorframe. The gravity-defying explosion of yellow curls, urgently widened blue eyes and raised brows make him look permanently like a balloon just popped in his face. "Not ready?"

Lazlo winces a little. "I be ready at a few minutes, wait."

"Wait? We late! Late!" Karter taps urgently on one of his watches (one is digital on military time, one is digital on twelve-hour time, and the other is analog). "Late to breakfast!"

"Breakfast at eight. Now seven-thirty. Not late!" No emails, none that are important, anyway. He logs off, wipes down the mouse again, and steps around K to go back across the hall and brush his teeth.

"Clean teeths _again_? What—" at which point Lazlo loses track of what he's saying, because the rant continues in K's native language.

"_No comprendo idioma noruego, _Karter! English! Gotta practice," he replies irritably and somewhat indistinctly around his toothbrush. "_Psicópata_…."

It's difficult, struggling to communicate with someone he still doesn't know that well when they're both a bit highstrung and the only language they have in common is one that they haven't been learning for long. They're both smart though, and they must be getting through somehow because Lazlo brushes his teeth as fast as he can, and Karter keeps the foot-tapping to a minimum and his muttering mostly under his breath (though he still checks his watches every five seconds).

A door slams open down the hall.

"You guys _loud,_" Isabel grouses, dragging out the last word as she shuffles over, eyes bleary and pale hair fuzzed in a tangled halo around her scowling face. "Not alla everyone as earlybird as _you, _eh? Why you gotta be that way?"

Karter squints up at the ceiling, visibly reaching for the words he wants. "For make you…not to sleep," he tells her cheerily, as Lazlo washes his toothbrush.

"Well thanks a bunch, it work smashingly," the girl says crabbily, folding her arms tightly. "I hafta sleep exactly eight hour a night, you know, elsewise I get hypertension and I might _die._"

"_Mentirosa_," Lo interjects while he dries his hands.

"Not lying! It true, even ask Verity!"

"I hear you pathy—path—that you lie, always." He'd like to add that he's never heard of anyone dying of not sleeping exactly eight hours a night, but that seems like a lot more thinking about grammar than he's willing to do before he's even had breakfast yet.

Isabel actually swells with anger, pale eyes flashing. "Who tell you that?"

"Qarri."

"_She _the one make up lies, not me. Can't trust her. Anyhow, bet you don't even know what hypertension is, bet you barely understand what I saying."

"Ok," says Karter, grinning at her indignation and obviously not caring at all. "Lazlo, ready now yet? Breakfast now!"

Lazlo briefly entertains the idea of nicking the other boy's watches sometime and setting them back twenty minutes or so, though he doubts it's doable because in their entire brief acquaintance he's never once seen K without all three of them on. Actually, what would be _really _funny would be to set them all to different times, until the part where Karter calmed down enough to throttle him. "Not late. Chill."

"_Dui a_," Isabel agrees grumpily. "It only seven-thirty, breakfast not even out til eight. You gonna sit at empty table and fiddle you thumbs?"

"Seven-thirty-_three _and twenty-two seconds," K corrects her, thrusting a watch-covered wrist in front of her eyes as evidence. "Lo! _Really?"_

"Almost ready!" Lazlo, who is soaping up the hands he just dried again, makes an inconspicuous face at the mirror. He gets that Karter is going to be antsy until they're sitting at that stupid table, waiting for breakfast, even though they'll be sitting there for twenty minutes doing _nothing_ (provided Constance doesn't notice them, because if she does then they'll get conscripted into helping set the tables) but he's pretty sure he missed a spot between his fingers and it only takes a few minutes, _jeez._

"About time," grumbles Isabel. "Go away or shuddup so alla rest of us can sleep."

"What? Sorry, no speak English," K smirks, gesturing impatiently at Lazlo and making emphatic use of the only Spanish he's picked up so far from the other boy. "_Vamos, vamos_!"

"_Coming!" _Not entirely satisfied that his teeth are as clean as they _could _be, Lo shoulders past the still-glaring Isabel. He can brush them again later.

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Translations without guarantee of actual linguistic correctness

_No comprendo idioma noruego! _- I don't speak Norwegian!

_Psicópata - _psycho

_Mentirosa - _liar

_Dui a! _- Chinese, something along the lines of 'that's right!' or 'that's true!'

_Vamos! _- Let's go!


	13. Joie

**AN: Heeee, this one is my favorite so far, so I hope you like it. and thanks to everyone who popped out of the woodwork alluvasudden and reviewed ^^ glad to have you along.**

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13. _Joie_

_Sscritch!_

The match flares to life, blue and morning-sky-gold and edged with angry orange in the dark. It shivers and sways as she moves it gently back and forth, tipping it so that flame crawls up the blackening wood. So pretty...like an actual living thing, surviving only through the destruction of something else, like so many other living things. Mesmerized, Crash slowly turns the match, until the flame is brushing her fingertips, then blows it out in a quick huff of air. Gone, just like that. Like any other living thing.

_Bon anniversaire, pépé._

Her grandfather would be 68 today if he were still around. So almost an hour and six burnt fingers after midnight, it's 68 spent matches scattered across her windowsill.

Crash's eyes are stinging a little (it's just the smoke, she tells herself) but her _pépé_ would tell her that life is for laughing and not crying so she laughs, and brushes the charred remains off the sill to tumble down to the yard.

Pushing the window open wider, she climbs up to sit on the edge and lights herself a cigarette, letting her bare legs swing free to tap her heels against the warm brick. It's a little cloudy and more than a little humid but the heat is bearable on this side of midnight; the last few days have been practically tropical. The air conditioners have been turned up correspondingly, and for some reason with the way the building is laid out all the cold air seems to concentrate in the physics lab so Crash has been freezing her butt off most of the day. It's nice to soak in some warmth for a while. The brass would probably flip if they knew how many of the students had their windows open, letting all the cool air out, but gotta get their nicotine somehow, eh?

"You up late," Devon observes, and she nearly falls out the window. She didn't notice him sitting in his own window several feet over (admittedly careless of her), cigarette in hand and that silly sheet folded up on the window ledge to keep from getting dirty. As she looks over D reflexively smooths his hair.

"I think you miss a bit there," she teases. It's _supposed_ to be funny—they're on the moon-shadow side of the building and it's so dark she can barely make out anything but a vague form and the ember of his cigarette, let alone the individual strands of glossy black that could very well be sticking straight up off his head, for all she can see, but as people around here are wont to do he of course takes it too seriously and there's a cold edge to his voice as he replies, smoothing his hair again.

"Up late and going through almost alla whole box'a matches alla at once. You only burn that fast when you buggin'. What you buggin' on?"

She imagines it's probably nice to not be psychoanalyzed every second of every day, even in the middle of the night when she thinks nobody's paying attention, but she wouldn't know, would she, and for a brief minute Crash misses Outside so much it hurts—misses sun-baked grapevines and playing with the dogs and the twinkle in her _pépé'_s eyes when he showed her how to twist the little paper firecrackers and would tell her _that the most enjoyable things in life always involve a little risk, Madeleine, and if you're not enjoying yourself then you're not really living._

And he's dead now but if he weren't he'd tell her to laugh.

So she laughs off the question and fires back, "I'm 'aunted by the 'orror of you ugly face, too nightmarish to sleep. You so _bored_ you countin' matches? Right. What _you_ buggin' on?"

It takes him a moment to answer, and Crash holds back a sigh, taking a long drag on her cigarette instead. Whenever he's being any fun at all he snaps right back, commenting on her commoner's snub nose or how ugly her freckles are or how he would teach her how to use a comb, if she could handle it. When he has to think it means he's going to get all grim—well, grimmer—about things. They almost never see eye to eye but they talk because it's convenient, being next door and next letter to each other, and she hates it when Devon gets like this, all doom and gloom and with his lovely pale eyes looking at nothing and sounding dangerously like he's confiding in her.

"Kira," he finally says, and that's all, and Crash thinks that was an awful long think for an awful short answer. Still, she's not surprised, because the entire House, staff and student alike, is bugging over the whole Kira tiff. _She's _no exception, so it's not unreasonable for D to assume that's what _pépé_'s birthday fires are all about. Crash is a lot happier letting him assume that than giving any hint of the truth.

"L gonna smash 'im like slugs onna sidewalk."

"_Zhidao_," Devon says irritably. "But L takin' his sweet time. It been almost four months. What if he _don't_? What if by the time he do things are changed for the worse?"

"Pfff. And what if a piano falls on 'is 'ead from the sky? You forget that one."

D lets out an angry huff of smoke. "Why don't you ever take _anything_ seriously?"

"Why you take _everything _so seriously?" C snaps back, and is immediately pissed off that she let him get to her, but she hates that he always has to predict the worst about every tiny thing that happens. Crash likes things that are pretty and dangerous, and that's why on some vaguely-defined level she actually likes Devon a lot, but his unconquerable pessimism is the one hideous thing about him and it's impossible to avoid. Worrying didn't make her _pépé_ better and it's not going to do anything about Kira either. "Keep that scowly-face and you face get stuck all wrinkledy like that. You already 'ard to look at, can't afford to make it worse," she adds lightly, just to take the edge off, try to cover the fact that she might possibly be genuinely upset by the mere suggestion that L won't dispatch Kira in a timely manner. Which is patently ridiculous and not even worth considering, let alone losing sleep over.

But D's _D_, and he'd probably shave his own precious eyebrows before he ever took a hint and lightened up for once. "The only reason you deflect like that alla every time is cuz you don't wanna admit you worried."

"Now 'oo's deflecting?"

"Already said I was worried. You the one up, burnin' matches like it's you job to take out the ozone layer single-handed and actin' like everything fine." Devon flicks his cigarette, sending a tiny glowing seed of orange falling down into the darkness.

"You right." She hears D shifting, can picture the look of surprise on his aristocratic features, graceful brows arched and slightly skeptical. "I _am _out to trash the ozone layer."

He sighs, and Crash wishes he would laugh occasionally instead of getting mad all the time, because he really gets to be a drag after a while. Stubbing out her cigarette and leaning into her room to drop the butt into a cup (it'd get suspicious if there were a pile of them in the grass below her room, now wouldn't it?), she almost decides to call it a night then decides no, it's _pépé_'s birthday and she's going to do her damnedest to try and enjoy herself. Killjoy or not, D has the _potential_ at least to be fun, even if she might have to eke it out of him. So instead she lights herself another cigarette and makes herself comfortable.

"What about that row earlier, eh? You 'ear Izzy and Q tiffin' at each other?"

"Seein' as how I'm in England and not the moon, couldn't avoid it," D mutters, and he still sounds cross, but if he didn't she'd probably think something was wrong. "Which one you bet gonna kill the other first?"

Crash grins.

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**Translations (accuracy not guaranteed)**

_Bon anniversaire, pépé. _French: Happy birthday, grandpa.

_Zhidao. _Chinese: to know something (I know that)


	14. Serpent

14. Serpent

"Where's Backup?" Dex asks suspiciously, looking around as though the other boy might be lurking behind a bookshelf, which Alt has to admit isn't such a stretch--and then of course he feels terrible, because he shouldn't be thinking such ungenerous things about B.

All four of them are staring at him questioningly now, and there's that hint of mistrust in their eyes, and that little voice in the back of his mind that sounds a lot like B whispers it—they really do all hate him.

"Bio lab," he says faintly, and it's not like he can do anything to make them despise him more, so he asks, "Can...can I study with you guys?"

D and G look like they'd as soon tell him to go to hell and Concord gets that same frozen look she gets when the English professor calls on her in class, but Hopper shoots Dex an odd, I-told-you-so kind of look and scoots his chair over to make room. "Sure, Alt."

Practically shaking with relief, he pulls up a chair and opens his history book. Gao and Dex's stares burn his face as he flips through it with trembling hands.

"We talking about Napoleon," C says in her feather-soft, pretend-nothing-is-strange-about-this voice, and he nods mutely, turning to the right chapter.

"Not to bug," Gao says suddenly, "but if B in the bio lab, what you doin' here?"

"I…." Alt doesn't know what to tell them, can't admit to his competitors that he's shaken down to his bones, would feel even lower and more exposed repeating any of the unsettling conversation he just had with the only person in this place that doesn't completely loathe him.

"Did you row?" Dex asks, and Alt meets his eyes expecting to find scorn and instead finds wheels turning and keen deduction, even a hint of cocoa-brown concern, or maybe that's just what he wants to see, and he feels weak and ashamed and hates himself that little bit much more.

And of course they didn't row, Backup is far too kind to him to ever quarrel, and it would be ungrateful of Alt to fight with him, but for some incomprehensible reason he feels a lot safer here, surrounded by his enemies, than he does alone with his friend, so he lies, "Yes."

"You ok?" asks Hopper.

They're all looking at him again—or maybe they never stopped staring—and Alt doesn't even know how to start answering that question, because if he's honest it might take hours and there'd be nothing left of him in the end but ribs and shame and parched, moth-eaten organs.

"I'm…." he starts, and doesn't actually know where his mouth plans to go from there, and suddenly they're looking not at him but behind him, and the scowls he's expected all along finally surface.

"Alt?" Backup asks, and his voice is gentle, it's hurt and disappointed. "Why would you leave me like that?"

Guilt fills him like tar, cloying and sticky and impossible to wash off, and he's so sorry he betrayed his only friend like that, but he didn't know what else to do, he was so disturbed by the things B was telling him—

"Colin, could you pass me that scalpel?" Backup had said, eyes down on mouse he was dissecting and hand outstretched and waiting, and A had simply stared at him, mouth open, because he had told his friend so many things when B has asked, had even reluctantly answered his sympathetic questions about how he felt when his mother lost his unborn brother and killed herself, but one thing he knew for a fact was that he'd never told _anyone _was his name.

"What—what you say?"

And B looked up, his eyes wide and guileless and blacker than Alt ever knew it was possible for irises to be before he met Backup. "That scalpel. Could you hand it to me?"

"Before that."

For a moment he seemed confused, uncertain of what A was talking about. "Oh. Colin? That's your name, isn't it? Colin Connick?"

"How did—how did you—?"

"God told me," Backup said, as though this were a normal, every-day occurrence.

The bottom of his stomach had dropped out, and he was still waiting for it to land. "You went through my file," he said, horrified and the tiniest bit angry, and too shocked to do anything but stare.

B stared back at him as though Alt had stabbed him in the chest. "Why are you so suspicious of me? You don't even give me the benefit of the doubt before assuming I'd lie to you? Why would I do that? I trust _you_, you know," he said, and looked like he might actually cry.

"I'm sorry," Alt said immediately, and he _meant _it, because B was always so nice to him and somehow he always ended up being cruel in return without meaning to. "It's just—there's no such thing as God, B."

"That's exactly what he said about you, at first," he said, frowning a little. "I mentioned you, and he thought I was making things up. God forgot all about you, Colin. I reminded him, though, I reminded him that you were the little boy who hated his brother, and he remembered, and he told me your name."

Alt was speechless. Backup would never, ever lie to him, but—well, A had never been sure about there being a God, and that was a big thing to change his mind about.

But…but if there _was _a God…and how else would B have found out his name?

Everyone else despised him. It was not so implausible that God was no exception.

His guts felt full of cold, slow-boiling lead, bubbling and poisonous. "I gotta go to the bathroom. Be right back," he said, and that's how he ended up in the library, caught between the distrustful glares of his four almost-confidantes and the sad, wounded dark eyes of his friend.

"We're trying to study here, Backup," Dex says coldly, but B never breaks his eye contact with Alt, and as though he's pulled by puppet strings he feels himself closing his book and standing.

At the doorway he glances back, and all four are still looking at him, expressions ranging from quizzical to disapproving. A sudden urge seizes him to say something—_help me—_but it never leaves the back of his mind and all that comes out is a desperate look at Dex, who shakes his head in a you-had-your-chance-and-you-threw-it-away kind of way, and B looks back curiously to see why he's hesitating so he follows.


	15. Poker

**AN: This turned out a lot more exposition-y than I meant for it to be, but hopefully it is still interesting....**

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15. Poker

"Hm…." Addison looks over his cards critically and scratches his chin, taking his time to think over his options.

"In ten years we might get to finish the game," Kendall tells Torres, chuckling and elbowing her in the arm. The psychologist returns with a tight smile, nudging away a little.

"Ok. I'll go in. One guess each," he says, and grins challengingly over his beer bottle.

They're an odd collection: it's difficult to tell Addison's age, but he has the look of an owlish sort of bookworm, sprawled out in his chair with his long legs stretched out; Dr. Torres is fairly young but sits up ramrod-straight and holds her cards primly in both hands, eyeing the man calculatingly; and Kendall, the House reference librarian, is a plump woman in her fifties with red-dyed hair and the sort of jewelry that Addison refers to as "Christmas tinsel". Outside, the three of them would probably never have enough in common to be sitting together playing cards. Options are pretty sparse, however; just leaving the institution for a pleasant evening is not exactly an available alternative.

On paper, the House is an orphanage. Of course not all of the children are technically orphaned; some were taken away from abusive homes, some were unwanted, some were separated from their families in situations of civil turmoil, and some…well, supposedly there are no records of any of them, so who knows? In any case, it's been seen to that none of the students of the House will ever have any inconvenient relatives or family friends show up and try to claim them.

What is rather less generally known is that the same is true of all the permanent staff, the ones who know the true purpose of the House. Every connection to the outside world is a liability to an institution that trains replacements to a myth. Even the most trustworthy person might accidentally let something slip to a spouse, or to a buddy over drinks. And if nothing slips, that still doesn't protect against neighbors and family simply getting curious or suspicious. When you come to work for Watari, you go off the map. Slip through the bureaucratic cracks. Emigrate but never immigrate. Some are even pronounced legally dead. Regardless of the method by which it is accomplished, you renounce citizenship of wherever you come from and become a member of the House, which might as well be a world unto itself.

So the men and women who accept Watari's offer have two things in common: they're extremely talented and highly trained at what they do, and they have a reason to _want _to abandon their lives and impressive careers.

Those reasons vary as widely as their backgrounds. Constance lost all six sons to the rebel conflict in Ireland (she's never said which side they were on). Verity, the nurse who runs the infirmary, was head of surgery at a hospital in Rwanda until she fled the civil war. Nobody's sure where the groundskeeper, Hopkins, is from, but it's rumored that years and years ago he was a high-up military officer exiled after a government turnover. Chegal, who runs the surveillance systems and administrates the servers and computer intranet, escaped political imprisonment in North Korea. Matron Marta ran a successful company that made and sold bulk textiles until her husband, who it turned out had been hiding his Mafia connections from her, until a deal went bad and took his entire family into hiding—unsuccessfully.

All in all, the House staff members are just as brilliant and damaged as the students. Instead of their parents, they've lost husbands and wives and children; instead of being abandoned, they've been forced to abandon their cultures and friends and homes and careers by war, civil collapse, and threats of assassination, defamation, or imprisonment.

They even leave behind their names, just like the children. Although, instead of being assigned letters (or numbers, as some of them have joked), the staff all choose their own pseudonyms.

"Addison's disease," Torres hazards.

"Too easy," says Kendall. She clicks her brightly painted nails on the table, narrowing her eyes at the other librarian. "Wasn't there a car model in the early 1900s called the Addison?"

"Wrong and wrong," says Addison, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling. "Ten."

Shaking their heads, the other two drop their chips on the table and they all draw cards.

It's probably not very responsible, using the inspirations behind their pseudonyms as part of a poker game (well, it started as a poker game, anyway—it's gained a few rules and lost a few others and probably doesn't look much like poker anymore). Term exams are over, though, which means all the students are taking a break from studying and are less stressed, which means that the staff can take a break too, relatively speaking. Constance got a hold of some good German beer for them and whipped up a truly amazing crisp dip, and they're having a rare good time.

Addison is having an especially good time, because he ends up winning the round.

"Ahhh, yes," he says, grinning like a little kid as he scoops the chips into his pile. "The rewards of superior intellect."

"Superior luck, you mean," Torres corrects, frowning sternly, and Kendall laughs uproariously.

"C'mon, you're the only one not figured out. Give us a hint, at least."

"I'll give you more than a hint, I'll tell you, since you show no signs of ever winning," he says, piling all the cards together and shuffling them. "Joseph Addison."

Torres frowns, raising one dark brow. "Never heard of him."

"All the better for you," says Kendall, scoffing. "Are you talking about the essayist Joseph Addison? I've been giving you too much credit, Addy. The man was spectacularly mediocre."

"Exactly," says Addison, and deals the next round.

It's as innocuous and disconnected from anyone he knew or anything he likes or dislikes as anything can be, and it's not his first false name. The librarian was approached by Watari when the Witness Protection Program failed the whole "Protection" part of its job, and just as W promised, he's never gotten a hint since entering the House that anyone has tracked him down again. No one there knows he's here, and no one here knows where he was.

"Alright," says Torres. It's hard to tell what she's thinking as she examines her cards. They all have excellent poker faces. They pretty much have to. "I bet twenty."


	16. Surrender

**AN: Hope everyone's final tests/projects are going well, for those to whom that applies...I really shouldn't be writing when I have so much stuff to do but here's a bit of ridiculously over-done angst anyway.**

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16. Surrender

Near can't remember the last time he was this pissed off.

His new charge, however, couldn't be more indifferent. He's always been under the vague impression that small animals tend to be curious or playful, but this one—Robosapien, as he's just labeled it at Roger's nagging—is sprawled on its side, returning his laser glare with a look of boredom.

It's not fair. Near doesn't know what good this will accomplish. He knows what _Roger_ thinks this stupid game is going to accomplish, but right now he's convinced that both he and Torres are idiots. Interpersonal responsibility, what a bunch of rhetorical trash. People show responsibility toward others because they _have _to. If they can't be coerced, or convinced that you can somehow be of use to them, they're going to drop you the first chance they get. Everything else is just lies and bullshit. Near learned that the hard way. It's not fair that _he _be expected to hold to a societal standard that was never applied to _him_.

"I don't _want_ you," he tells the cat bitterly. "You serve no useful purpose."

Robosapien blinks once then starts licking its paw.

* * *

Night is worse.

He's blockaded the creature and its litter box in the corner of the room with Legos, but that can't stop it from crying. It's been quiet all day. Why can't it shut up now?

Near considered shutting it in the toy chest (didn't want it 'doing its business' in there), leaving it out in the hall (Roger and Torres might decide he's incurably lacking in the qualities necessary to be L), and putting it out on the windowledge then shutting the window (he could risk getting scrubbed, and then what use would he be to anyone?) So now instead he's curled in a ball with the covers pulled all the way up and his pillow over his head, clamped over his ears to try to muffle the noise. It's not working.

This is beyond a lesson, or even punishment. This is torture.

The most efficient way to end it would be to go to Torres and tell her it's bothering him, but then he'd have to explain why, and he's not willing to be that open with anyone.

Maybe he should just go sleep somewhere else—one of the study rooms, maybe, or even one of the infirmary beds—if he's caught he can always just lie and say he wasn't feeling well—

But then why didn't he get the nurse, or the on-duty aide? And that will only work so many times anyway. He doesn't know how many nights may pass before the miserable creature learns that crying doesn't accomplish anything.

* * *

Xie is the most jealous about the cat. Or at least, she's the one who lets it show the most.

The creature is intolerable at night, but during the day it just sort of follows him and sleeps (oh, the irony). It lounges a couple feet away in positions that don't look physically possible, let alone comfortable, while Near curls up on the common room floor and plays with the Legos. He thinks grudgingly that maybe he could put up with that, since it's not knocking down his toys or jumping around like he thought it might, but Xie is hovering nearby, obviously itching to play with Robosapien, and _that's _annoying.

Near's already short-tempered, both because of the injustice of the situation in general and the recent lack of sleep, and if he were a just a tad more inclined to engage he'd turn around and tell her to buzz off.

"Can I pet her?" Xie asks shyly, when he shows no sign of taking the hint from her hopeful lurking.

"No. Leave it alone."

None of the House kids are really the type to take permission that seriously, though, and just a few minutes later, there's a yelp of pain and he turns in time to catch Xie snatching her hand away from the cat, who appears to have closed around it like a raccoon trap.

"She _bit _me!"

"What part of 'leave it alone' was unclear?"

Xie scowls, examining her hand, which is bleeding slightly. "You two suit each other," she snaps, and finally goes away.

* * *

After four days he's exhausted, and though thankfully no one seems to have noticed yet, Near feels like a wreck. The cat messes up his routine and he doesn't like it. Other kids seem to think it's an excuse to approach him. He hates the smell of the catfood, hates cleaning up after it, hates that everywhere he goes there's that quiet _pad-pad-pad _following like a fluffy shadow. It's a waste of his time.

And then there's the crying.

He's tried putting a blanket in Robosapien's little Lego pen, moving it to be next to the heating vent, leaving food and water in there for it, and still it won't stop mewling all night. If Near believed that animals could construct complex thoughts, he'd be convinced that it was _trying_ to drive him insane. Short of killing it, he's running out of ideas.

The cold, itchy feeling is like static under his skin, like his hands and insides have fallen asleep and have that awful pin-tingly sensation that just won't go away. Isn't tuning supposed to fix this? Ten years from now stress and discipline and obsession with the Kira case will bury it in the deepest corners of his mind and he'll be as good at hiding his emotions from himself as he is at concealing them from others, but right now he's still just a little boy, and that wretched cat sounds just like the baby did in the last couple days before she finally died of dehydration.

Near used to blame himself. Mommy always told him to take care of the baby while she was gone, which was often, and he always had. The last time, though, she left the baby in the crib instead of on the floor, and he couldn't reach through the bars with the bottle. He tried putting other things in, like goldfish crackers and Cheerios, but she was too little to understand (or to eat them anyway, he later learned), and Mommy never came back. It has taken a lot of time and tuning for him to realize that she didn't leave because he didn't take good enough care of his sister, but because she never wanted either of them in the first place.

His useless effort to not dwell on that part of his life which is _over and should no longer be relevant_ is interrupted by the loud clatter of a Lego wall falling over, and the scrabbling of tiny little claws on plastic. Near sighs into his pillow. Now he has to go fix it…not that it will do any good—

But then there's a slight tugging at the covers, and then light weight padding across the bed, and Robosapien flops down by the pillow like that's its rightful place. Which it most certainly is not.

But she's _quiet._

Near is tired and frazzled enough to let it slide…just this once.


	17. Magpie

**AN: So I've been thinking about this story collection a lot while I'm supposed to be thinking about other things like finals, and I think maybe I will draw a lot of it together into a mesh of coherent themes and storylines rather than just a bunch of associated standalones. Sort of a ...patchwork quilt of a story with a few parallel themes, with some being kind of outliers plotwise to fill in the setting and others being more...erm...plottish. I'm thinking of aiming for a nice round number like 40 or so chapters in all...it's all rather vague in my head at this point so if there are particular characters you find interesting and would like to see play a larger role or particular parts of SotF/UOR that you think need more background feel free to chip in before I get it all mapped out.**

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17. Magpie

It's silvery and shiny and he wants it.

All through world literature class while Train is supposed to be engaging in the discussion about how imperialism is framed in the books they read for the week, he's surreptitiously peering up at the mystery thing and imagining what might be inside of it. It looks like a robot daisy, just sticking out of the ceiling. He can't even begin to guess what the heck it is— but that's half of its allure. When he gets this treasure back to his room he can examine it and take it apart and see if the insides are as interesting as the outside, which they almost always are.

The waiting is just about killing him. After the incident with Karter's marble-counting clock, and then again after the whole thing with the common room TV remote, and yet again with the three-hole-punch on Roger's desk, Matron Marta gave him a long (and mildly intimidating) lecture about stealing and deconstructing others' possessions. But this thing is in a public classroom and _clearly _doesn't belong to anyone, so it's not stealing others' possessions, and anyway there are three more spaced out around the ceiling in just this room and dozens more all over the House, and he only wants one. All the same, he'd rather be able to say he didn't know any better if he gets caught and the brass get mad than ask for it directly and discover for sure that he's not allowed so he's decided to wait until night to come fetch it.

Good thing there's a lot of planning to do, or he'd probably go crazy with impatience. Train isn't sure if the mystery object is connected to anything above the ceiling, or even to the drop ceiling tiles themselves, so he'll need wrenches, screwdrivers, and a few saws just in case it needs persuading to abandon its current home, a ladder, a way to circumvent the door, which will be locked after curfew…the ladder's going to be the hardest part, of course, because he's small and it'll be bulky and difficult to drag and set up, but when Train gets it into his head to get his hands on something he almost always finds a way. Even though his way sometimes involves a tiny bit of unavoidable mess.

Midnight finds him back in the classroom, perched on the lightest ladder he could find and curiously poking around the inside of the ceiling. He's managed to push and pull down the tiles around the shiny thing and has dropped them on the floor around the ladder along with a scattered pile of ripped-out pink wads of insulation. Turns out the thing is connected to some kind of metal pipe that seems to run through the ceiling. They must all be connected. Perhaps they're more cameras, Train is thinking, though they sure don't _look _like any cameras he's ever seen.

He's brought some tools and thinks he might be able to unscrew the thing from its fixture, so he works away at it with the wrench for a while, but it turns out to be a lot tighter than he hoped and at seven years old he's just not big and strong enough so he's considering trying to saw through the pipe (would probably take too long, assuming he can put enough pressure on it to make even a scratch without falling off the ladder) or maybe even sneak down to the metals workshop and get the oxy-acey torch (he's been told he's too young to use it yet, but how hard can it be? Just point and burn, right?) and that's about the point that on-duty aide happens to walk by.

Oh, poo.

"_Train_!"

Within seconds he's being bundled down from the ladder by the unreasonably alarmed-looking Grown Up. Apparently she remembers the TV remote incident pretty keenly because instead of putting him down, she keeps him balanced on one hip with both arms locked firmly around his waist while she takes stock of the destruction.

"I just wanna look, Sadi!" he says defensively, to head off any potentially forthcoming accusations of stealing.

"We ask questions and _then_ take a closer look, Train," she says in that special voice that Grown Ups use when they're really mad or scared but don't want you to know it, and then she explains to him about the fire suppressant system and how when the alarm goes off, all the little robot flowers spray flame retardant down all over the room.

Well, ok, he _supposes _he can see why Sadiki doesn't want him cutting through the little pipes. That's the nice thing about the House, instead of saying _No!_ and hitting you, the Grown Ups explain Why. Still, it takes a lot of the excitement and mystery out of things, and just because they explain Why doesn't mean they don't also send you down to the kitchen to wash pots for Cookie.

So Train puts on his best repentant pout and opens his eyes a smidgeon wider and cuddles into the embrace, because being the second T, he's the littlest in the House and can still sometimes get off the hook simply by playing the part of a winsome child. "I'm sorry," he offers in the most crestfallen tone he can fake. "I didn't mean to hurt anything…."

Unfortunately for him, Sadiki sees not only right through his act but also the wrenches and miniature saws that he…ah…_found _in the maintenance tool closet.

"Train…." she sighs, shaking her head and carrying him out, probably back to his room. "What did we learn about stealing?"

"I was going to put them back," T protests. "I was sharing."

"That's not sharing. Sharing means _both_ people know and agree to share," Sadiki says patiently, and continues on in this vein for a while. The lecture is tiresome, but Train sort of likes being carried (though he'd never admit that to the other students or they'd tease him for being a baby). With his head resting on her soft-sweatered shoulder, he has a close view of her earrings.

"Locked door means ask permission to borrow," he repeats after her grudgingly when prompted, and wraps his little arms around her neck, snuggling closer. The earrings are dangly, with lots of tiny gold shinies and twinklies, bright against her dark skin. The backs don't look that difficult to unclinch.

The aide puts him back to bed, setting his alarm clock for painfully early in the morning so he'll be up in time to help wash breakfast dishes (Train sighs) and tucking him in.

"No more night wandering," she warns, then adds gently, "Good night, Train."

"Night, Sadi," T mumbles sleepily, and she shuts the door behind her. It's a given that she and the other on-duty aides will be checking regularly to make sure he's still in bed. He sighs a little.

As soon as he hears Sadiki's footsteps fade down the hall, though, he sits up again, not sleepy at all, and pulls his pretty new golden treasures out of his nightshirt pocket to admire how they sparkle in the dim glow of the alarm clock numbers.

Shiny.


	18. Ghosts

18. Ghosts

"It's time to leave," Even says.

Kae and Icarus look up. It's just a little after dawn and Friday calculus problems are due right after breakfast, so the three girls got up early to finish up and compare answers like they do every week. Even apparently finished the night before, though, and is sitting in the window waiting for the other two to complete their homework.

"No," says Kae, glancing at the clock on the wall. "It only six, E."

But the flicker of Icarus's hands diverts her eyes, and the older girl signs, _She doesn't mean breakfast._

"You not talking about breakfast, are you?" Kae says for her, as she always does.

Even traces her fingers over the cold glass, then over the wood frames between the windowpanes, following the woodgrain and the shapes of the corners and edges. "No. The House."

A cold, hollow space opens up in K's chest.

"But—but what about L?" she blurts out, and Even tilts her head a little, as though she's listening to words that continue after Kae stops talking. Of the three of them, E has always shown the most promise for the succession, and though things have been—different—since A died and B ran away, still so recent and hard to wrap her mind around even though it's been months, the pressures of the House haven't made Kae any less determined to get every scrap of learning she can out of the place.

"'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert'," E murmurs, almost to herself, then says, "you can't become someone else without killing your own self."

_It's A, isn't it, _Icarus signs, and Kae repeats it.

E lets her hand drop from the window and runs it along the seams of the windowseat cushion instead. "He's always apologizing," she says softly. "Can you hear him too?"

"No, never," Kae says for herself, nonplussed, then says for Icarus, "Yes, sometimes."

She doesn't understand, and not for the first time, K feels like the odd one out in their little trio. On the Outside she was the strange, awkward, oblique one. Inside, though…so often she feels so abnormally _normal. _Kae likes cartoons on a Saturday morning occasionally, instead of more studying. She doesn't mind sports. She's starting to notice boys, in a general sort of way, though she's not especially attached to any of the ones in the House. Yeah, she nerds out over things like aerogel glazes and Kevlar fiber structure, and her parents died, but those are the reasons she's here—they certainly don't set her apart.

But with Icarus and Even, and the other letters to varying extents, it's different. It's like they have a sixth sense, some glimmer of dark matter magnet intuition, the accidental static spark in the machine that makes the miracles happen. They see with more than their eyes, notice details it would never occur to her to look for. Despite the fact that half of the time Even sounds like she's having conversations out of chronological order and Icarus's mouth and throat are too damaged to speak at all, or maybe because of those things, it seems to K like they're communicating on some level that even her far above average IQ and rigorous education can't help her to comprehend.

"Where you gonna go?" Kae asks, hushed. No one has ever, ever left Watari's program—unless you count Alt and Backup, and that's a pretty particular situation. K can't fathom what E is thinking. Going Outside means becoming an alien again, getting bounced around by foster families with varying levels of tolerance for people like them, maybe even adopted by wormbait. Traffic. Governmental hegemony. Public schools. Danger. They all joke that you have to be crazy to be chosen for the House, but right now Kae thinks you'd have to be a much more terrible and self-threatening kind of crazy to refuse that call once chosen. Alt was crazy to kill himself, Backup was a blatant psychopath, and Even must be crazy to throw it all away like this.

But E's breath catches and she whispers, "I don't know," and starts to cry, and she's obviously been visited and terrified already by all the thoughts that are running through K's head right now.

And while K may not be playing on the same level as the other letters when it comes to abstraction and intuition and sensing the voices of dead boys, this is the edge that she has—she knows how to act in times like this. With a meaningful look at Icarus, she gets up and goes to the windowseat and puts her arms around her friend. Icarus joins them after a moment of hesitance. The three girls huddle in the window, Even sobbing silently and Icarus patting her back at Kae's prompting and K telling her, "It ok, E, it gonna be ok."

"It not gonna be ok," Even gasps against her shoulder. "Bad things are going to happen, and I don't want to be here for them."

"What bad things?" Kae interprets Icarus's hand signals.

"I don't know. They're just there."

"Bad like B?" K whispers, a tingle of fear playing at the back of her neck.

"I don't know," E says again, then looks up, her bloodshot dark eyes flickering between them. "Come with me."

There's not even a second thought, really, just reluctance to say it. Whatever it is that E is experiencing, whether it's the trauma of finding Alt's body or guilt or just a sensitive, delicate mind that can't handle the strain anymore, K doesn't share it. She meets Icarus's eyes. The scarring on the other girl's upper lip is probably as minimal as can be expected, but it would never go unnoticed in a crowd. _No, _Icarus is signing, the movement of her fingers emphatic and jerky. _I can't go back out there. Not yet._

"Please, come with me," Even repeats, almost begging, fingers plucking desperately at the hem of her nightshirt. "Don't stay here."

"We're sorry, E," Kae says, and she feels the burn of tears on her own cheeks.

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**AN: So that's all of the older set introduced at least, then, A-L. Jeez, there are a lot of characters in this story.  
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**'_Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert' - _excerpt from the poem 'Ozymandias' by Percy Bysshe Shelley.**

**Have a character you want to see more of? Have a story about clairvoyance or your favorite poem? share your thoughts.  
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	19. Fall

19. Fall

It's starting to get too dark to see their books properly, but that doesn't really matter since the real reason they're studying outside is because Una and Geia want to smoke. In the dim almost-twilight the lighting is just right that the two aides chatting on the steps and keeping an eye out on the children who are still outdoors can't see the thin grey wisps unless they come closer.

Sember doesn't smoke. He tried it when Gao offered him one, of course, hacking and choking the first few times and then got used to it, because, well, he didn't like feeling left out and it did take the edge of the stress off, but then he took that autopsy pathology course and nothing makes you want to vomit at the sight of a cigarette more effectively than dissecting a lung stuffed with tar. Almost every other student (and a lot of the staff) still does, though, so the secondhand stuff is pretty well impossible to avoid.

That being the case, he's just waiting awkwardly for U and G to finish their cigarettes. S does most things awkwardly, so that's bearable, but it's a bit boring and his attention is drawn up to the House itself.

For as much as the students like to hide, it's funny how visible many of them are from this vantage point. Many have their windows open to the pleasantly cool breeze. Some are even sitting _in _their windows (probably smoking) and a few are on the roof, beyond the view of the aides. Sember suspects the staff know the kids who have rooms on the third floor (or friends with rooms on the third floor) climb up there sometimes—though he doubts they realize how many or how often, or they'd probably take measures to stop it. It's not remotely safe. _He's _never been up there, and doesn't really understand the draw. It's not like there's anything interesting up there, plus he's not very comfortable with heights and thinks he'd probably die of terror even considering trying to climb out one of the windows and over the gutter. Not that he could probably heave his not-so-slender self up there even if he _did _have some crazed impulse to do so. He sighs.

"Ooohh, what now," Geia mutters around her cigarette, staring up at the roof now too through her fringe, and it's pretty obvious what she's talking about. "That crazy bitch gonna get herself killed one'a these days."

G's commentary confirms what his dull vision could not, though he suspected it was her: Crash has taken it upon herself to rail-walk the peak of the House, probably on a dare. The skinny figure, dark and blurry against the greying sky, wobbles slightly, her arms spread out, takes a few mindful steps, then speeds up a little, assured in her balance.

S can't help but agree with Geia's assessment, though he thinks 'bitch' is quite extreme. He doesn't think Crash is so bad. She's not pretty at all, with her too-wide mouth and disproportionately small nose, but she smiles and laughs a lot, and she's bright and assertive. One might even say he admires her a bit.

Of course, they're not friends. Actually, he's never spoken to her. Ever. Sember is pretty sure he's not prepared to handle her snappy comebacks or constant teasing. As a general rule he gets along a lot better with girls than with the other boys, but little C is the outstanding exception. Forget approaching her, just being in the same _room _makes his hands clammy and his chest shiver a little. That's ok. He doesn't mind admiring from a distance—

She disappears behind the roof, and there's a shriek of alarm, then a plummeting scream that cuts off sharply.

He's a terrible, terrible runner but he _runs, _knees pumping frantically and fat fists clenched, Una and Geia shouting in surprise behind him and those stupid inattentive aides on the front step turning in confusion as he races around the side of the House and oh God, oh God, she's crumpled on her back with her limbs at wrong angles. Practically falling in the grass beside her, he immediately checks her pulse. She's conscious but dazed, staring through him, eyes out of focus and breath shallow and sharp. "Dev?"

"Crash!" Devon yells. There's scraping and skidding and he slides down to the edge of the roof, eyes wide and dusky face pale with horror. "Is she ok?"

"_No_, you _blakas _sot, she just fall offa building!" Sember rails up at him, at a somewhat scary person he's barely dared to _speak_ to before, with more force and volume than he ever imagined he possessed in himself, "Don't sit an' gape! Go get Verity!"

He's taken first aid, one of only a handful of students to have bothered, and he can see that she's going into shock. No surprise there; by the looks of things she's probably concussed, one leg and her wrist are obviously broken, other limbs less obviously but probably so, and Sember would be amazed if at least a few ribs weren't cracked. It's a miracle that she's conscious after a fall like that.

"Don't try to get up," he tells her, amazingly calm and quick and self-possessed on the outside though he's in turmoil inside, "You're badly hurt. Can you tell me your letter?"

"C…for Crash," she groans, and tries to stir again, then cries out in pain as she jars some broken bone or another.

"Don't move," he tells her again, and two revelations hit him, one good and one very, very bad and both like bullets:

1. This, _this _is his intended role, he's never truly fit as a detective; he's just _meant_ to be a paramedic, and

2. His admiration for Crash is rather more than just admiration. Perhaps quite a lot more.

Luckily the first one is strong enough to let him ignore the second and focus on determining if she's sustained serious injuries until the nurse arrives.

-o-

Verity and her assistants take responsibility from his hands and C to the infirmary, and apart from the gossip, dinner and evening study and bedtime curfew go on as usual.

Sember goes through the motions as long as he thinks he can without Una and Geia noticing he's bothered. Actually, for once _no one _notices; the few that witnessed the incident have told everyone else about it, and they're all extremely surprised slightly impressed that tubby, nervous Sember reacted so quickly and efficiently while everyone else stood around blinking. It's an unflattering sign of how surprised they are to be impressed that they tell him so. G and U are openly smiling and supportive, obviously glad to see him come into his own in some way, and even Devon, his pale panther eyes resentful and mouth tight with repressed—S isn't sure exactly what, but he's glad it's repressed—looms over him terrifyingly after dinner to give his stilted thanks and shake his hand a bit more firmly than is comfortable.

At last he tells Geia and Una that he's really quite tired and thinks he'll go to bed early tonight. Curling up in the window with his blue blanket (which he's managed to hang onto despite Marta's complaining that it's old and needs replaced) S settles in to feel sorry for himself.

There aren't any brass rules against dating. It's the students who frown on it.

Housecest is just…never a good idea. Everyone knows what happened with Fallon and Kae. Jitter and Gao _still_ won't speak to her, long after F has been scrubbed. Pack a couple dozen manipulative, conniving kids who are raised to put their ambitions before everything else into one building, multiply in the facts that most of them are highly introverted and have lousy social skills, a lot of them have mommy or daddy issues and a few have even been sexually abused, and no good can come of adding anything resembling romance to the mix. It would require a level of trust none of them can afford in such a competitive environment, and though they may not be emotionally mature enough to come to this conclusion with equanimity, they're all more than healthily paranoid and peer pressure does the rest. A few of them have anonymous relationships online; most, upon reaching adolescence, just handle the matter privately, or not at all.

Anyway, it's nothing S will ever have to worry about. He has no illusions as to how Crash might feel about him. She's literally never given him a second glance. And really, he can't blame her.

Still, says the tiny, daring voice in the back of his head, which almost never gets a say but which always seems to pipe up anyway at the most inconvenient times, he _did _just practically save her life. Well, maybe that's exaggerating. But it's wouldn't be odd for him to go down to the infirmary to see her. Check on the patient's progress. He wonders if she knows what all happened—she was pretty disoriented at the time. It's a conversation starter. Maybe they could be friends. She can't just ignore him now, can she?

And besides, the tiny voice prods him along, it can get awfully dull being stuck in the infirmary alone. Crash might appreciate the company, regardless of who provides it. If she's even awake. Which she probably isn't! He could just go take a quick peek through the door, make sure she's alright, and no one would ever be the wiser, including C.

He has to keep telling himself this to keep his feet creeping down the hall and stairs.

Just as he's nearly reached the infirmary door, however, he hears footsteps coming purposefully from the opposite direction. The confidence that filled him when Crash fell and the urging of the tiny daring voice abruptly vanish, and he freezes, petrified, completely at a loss for what to do—dodge into the infirmary, or run for it, or—or—

And, oh God, of all the miserable luck, it's the black Twin.

"What're you doing here?" Mello demands, stopping immediately upon seeing him. It's pretty obvious why M is up and about; he's got a monstrous stack of books and printed PDFs tucked in his arms and he looks strained and crabby--more so than usual. The matron allows the students to skip curfew if they're studying in the library under Addison or Kendall's watch. It's well known that Mello does so almost every night.

"I…." Sember falters, his mind blanking.

But any excuse he might have offered would be seen through in an instant anyway. S really _hates_ being around both of the Twins, because as much as they insist that they're different (or, well, M does—N doesn't much care) they're disturbingly alike in that they share the uncanny ability to deduce or sense or hell, maybe they smell it on you for all Sember knows, every thought and feeling that runs through your mind; and you get that same sense from both of them, once they've figured it out, Mello through his smug expression of 'aha, I see' and Near through his significant silence, and then, the jerks, they spell it out for you just to let you know what they know.

And there it is, that knowing look. Sember can't help but cringe.

"You've come to visit little C, haven't you? After hours. When no one can see you," Mello observes, his electric blue eyes flicking to the infirmary door then flicking back to skewer his own eyes again like a fencing foil. Mortified, S feels his cheeks heating, and the corners of the Twin's mouth curl, eyes lighting as though he asked for a trike and got a motorcycle. "Like _that, _then. Oh, my. I wonder what _she'd_ think of that?"

The other boy's obvious amusement and scorn make his stomach turn. It _is_ laughable, really.

"Please don't tell anyone," S hears the words rushing out of his mouth, and immediately wishes he could take them back. Mello laughs out loud, then strides on by him, leaving Sember feeling like he's narrowly missed being hit by a train.

"Don't worry," M calls mockingly. "It'll be our little secret."

As soon as he's out of sight, Sember scuttles back to his room by another route, cursing that stupid tiny daring part of himself for putting him in this situation in the first place.


	20. Volcano

20. Volcano

Matron Marta is not unlike a volcano in many ways. Sometimes her anger boils right up to the surface immediately, hot and scathing. Other times she holds it in check, letting it build deep down like a pocket of magma and sulfur, and the longer she keeps it under wraps the more carnage and devastation you have to look forward to when it finally explodes.

Quillsh has quite a lot on his plate. He already had quite a lot on his plate _before_ things suddenly and unexpectedly came apart at the seams back at the House. Watari is probably capable of handling a higher-heaped plate than most people in the world, but he knows better than to ask for seconds, so when he sees the signs that Mount Marta is building up steam, he quickly draws the meeting to a conclusion, sends his old friend Roger off to the office he's just inherited to start getting settled in, and asks,

"What is it that you don't like about him?"

_Well. _The matron needs no more invitation than that.

"He knows nothing of children!"

"But he knows administration, he knows how to utilize and recruit personnel, he knows how to exploit legal loopholes, and he's much more flexible than he seems. It is true that Roger will probably interact much less with the children than Witterson did, but I assure you he is qualified to manage the institution."

"Papers, papers, pah! Children need zat father figure, they _need_ interaction and attention—"

"Roger is one of _many_ competent staff members in the House. The position of manager need not be the only one to which the students turn for attention," Quillsh says patiently.

The list goes on. He's too reclusive. He's too strict. He drinks too much. He's too old. Mr. Wammy heads off each one of these increasingly loud complaints with calm, pleasant rationality. Finally, however, they pierce the heart of the matter.

Marta's dark eyes are blazing, and the smoke is practically visible curling out like her greying hair from under her babushka. "Zat man is a _mercenary! _Such a man should not be around such impressionable young children!"

For the first time in the conversation a hint of Watari shows in Mr. Wammy's cheerful face, a barely visible steeliness hardening the corners of his mouth and glinting in his light blue eyes. "The company for which Roger was previously employed specializes in private corporate security."

"Qvillsh Vammy," Marta says in a tone she normally reserves for students who are trying to lie about their misbehavior, "do not try to pull vool over my eyes or distract from zis issue. I am not ignorant of deez matters."

"They've been consistently compliant with the guidelines set out by the Geneva Conventions," he says firmly. "I investigated them personally before contacting him. Anyway, his position there was administrative, not military, and I assure you that his conduct in the army was never short of admirable."

"Technicalities! You and I both know very vell zat such regulations can be easily circumvented," the woman snaps, ignoring the second half of his statement. "I am vell avare of deez loopholes and ze polite terms zey use to conceal ze truth! Matvei used excuses such as deez—"

"Marta," he says, and his voice is gentle titanium, and this is ultimately _his _House, so she stops, seething. The matron knows he thinks she's being unreasonable, but she just does _not trust that Roger_, she gets that same feeling from him that she did in those last few years with Matvei, when he came home later and later and grew cooler and cooler toward his wife and their son, and she _trusted_ him anyway and in return for that trust she was rewarded with the sight of her little Alexei and her husband being shot dead before her eyes. Since then Marta has learned to follow what her instincts tell her, and they've never led her astray.

But she also trusts Watari, and he's never led her astray either.

"I have known Roger since I was a lieutenant," Watari is saying now, patient and polite as ever. "I will grant that he is not the warmest or most affectionate of men. However, I understand your concerns, and I can assure you that he _never_ deceived his wife about his line of work. Whatever your opinion of his past employment, he is conscientious, responsible, and thorough, and I believe that he will do an admirable job as manager. Do not forget that many of the people in this House are on second chances, and have gone above and beyond what has been asked of them to make the most of it."

"…Very vell," Matron Marta says tightly. "I vill give zis Roger ze benefit of ze doubt for now. But only because you haf asked it."

"I appreciate it," he replies, and he's sincere and truly believes the best of people, and the matron thinks that this Roger fellow had damn well better prove him right, or Mount Marta will be having the final say.


	21. Panopticon

21. Panopticon

The first T is Traction.

It's an ironic name, though nobody realizes it until long after it's assigned to him, because he never really does catch ground at the House. Not many of the students get a chance to get to know him, and he doesn't try to get to know any of them, and when he's gone not many of them remember much about him except that he lasted less than two weeks.

T—whose _name _is Ray—doesn't need them. There's only one person he can trust.

"They took down the tape we put over that camera across the hall," Ally says, flopping down on Ray's bed. "Huh. Bouncy."

"I know," mutters Ray. He's just turned his computer monitor so that it faces the corner, but he still doesn't quite trust it. The back of his neck feels fizzly. "We'll just have to take the whole thing down. You reckon there's more in here?"

"Probably. Maybe. Definitely," his sister says, getting up onto her feet and giving the bed a more enthusiastic bounce. "We should check." _Bounce. _"I think I saw one under the bed." _Bounce. _"And another hidden in the fan."

"Yeah," he agrees, scratching the back of his head. "I can feel them."

"So do I have to start calling you T now?"

"No!" Ray snaps. "It's a brainwashing tactic. You shouldn't use your letter either."

"But it's funny, I'm U now," Ally says, laughing at her own pun. "Too bad M is ehm and not mee. Wouldn't it be funny if U was me and me was I and I was U?"

"Just don't. We can't let them get to us."

"Oh fine," Ally sighs. "So when're we going for the cameras?"

"Shhh! They can hear us!"

"Sorry!" She drops her voice to a whisper. "Are we going tonight?"

That night they take down the camera, throwing a pillowcase over it and snipping the wires and smashing it with a giant hard-cover atlas Ray got from the library for that purpose. He wraps the pillowcase tightly, knotting it and throwing it in the back of his closet and burying it with pillows and towels.

It's not an hour before They are at his door, shape-shifting this time into the forms of the stern woman who pretends to be a doctor and a new shape, a sunken-cheeked Korean man. The They who calls herself Torres explains to Ray and Ally that the cameras are there for the protection of the students and there is no reason to be afraid. The They who calls himself Chegal takes the pair of them to a room of wires and boxes and recorders and monitors and explains how it all works, and how at any given moment the students' privacy is being respected and they are not being watched. The recordings are only referred to if there is a problematic situation which needs reviewing.

Bunk, most of it, Ray is positive. And how did They know he and Ally had taken down the camera, if someone is not watching every second? He thinks it might be true that the room with the wires and boxes is the Center, but They only showed him that to scare him, to show Ray the extent of Their power.

And he thinks They know he and his sister know. As they walk prepatterned lines They have set for Ray and Ally to follow between classes and meals and study times, the cameras are turning their heads to watch them, catching them in crosshairs, cross-examining. They're everywhere—the biggest ones blink from the ceiling, but there are more, thousands more, hidden in every light fixture and electric socket and water spigot and vent.

After curfew Ray starts to think they made a terrible mistake in taking down the hall camera and not disposing of it more thoroughly.

"Can you hear that?" Ally whispers. She got scared and came to his room almost as soon as the lights were out and now they're both huddled under his covers, terrified.

Of course he hears it. How can he not? It's clinking and chittering, scrabbling at the inside of the closet door. That camera has either brought itself back to life, or the Center has brought it back to life, or it wasn't dead in the first place. Ray shudders. Maybe they can't be killed.

"So there's only one way to stop them for good," Ally whispers.

This time instead of a library book, he acquires a pair of hedge shears. They dodge and weave down the halls, avoiding the red-eyed glare of the cameras, and find their way back to the Center. There are wires everywhere in nets and coils and thick brain-stem bundles. Ally points out the thickest bundle to Ray.

Luckily, Chegal, who was woken by an alarm the instant Traction touched the security room door, bursts in and seizes him before he electrocutes himself. The next morning T is sent to a facility better equipped to handle and treat his problems.

"In again out again Finnigan," Constance mutters over her stove, forcefully stirring a large pot of chicken stock. "How on earth does that man expect us to give these poor kids any sort of normalcy when he's sending them in so fast they don't even have time for a proper psych workup?"

Everyone is talking about it (or determinedly _not _talking about it) at the breakfast table.

"No surprise there," Paran comments to Qarri after Roger makes the announcement. "That kid was _cracked_. Alla time talkin' to himself. You hear him?"

Gao attempts to open up bets over whether Mr. W will rename the next new fishie T or go on ahead to U, since the first T didn't even make it to the next letter's arrival. Nobody takes him up on it.

Fallon bites his lip and exchanges a strained look with Jitter behind Kae's back. Later that day he tells Torres he has changed his mind and wants to start medication for his own psychiatric problems.


	22. Crossings

**AN: So I tried something a little different with this chapter. Let me know how you like it, or if it's too boring/confusing/whatever. I felt like it turned out a little more.....exposition-y than I meant.  
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22. Crossings

The first to traverse the House foyer every morning is Hopkins, the groundskeeper. A little before dawn his slow, stumping footsteps cross to the coat closet to retrieve his boots, then head out the front door to make his daily inspection of the wall and yard. Shortly after he returns, shucking his mud-clumped boots on the porch and stowing them back in the closet. Matron Marta and the maintenance staff frown on outside shoes indoors, especially mud on the nice rugs. Most of the children go barefoot or in socks, and the staff learn to get used to slippers. Hopkins stumps off toward the kitchens for a cup of coffee and the entrance hall is dark and quiet again.

Outside the sky pales and cool porcelain light filters in through the tall windows. As it brightens, the red, gold, and purples shapes of the stained glass above the front doors print themselves on the wooden floor.

Yawning, Kendall shuffles down the stairs in her favorite dinosaur slippers to get some coffee before opening up the library for any students who get up early to study.

Marta follows not long after and switches on the lights in the still-dim hall. The manor used to boast an elaborate antique chandelier. Train managed to change that in about five seconds, giving himself several nasty cuts, destroying the rug and damaging the wood floor, and providing Constance with a dishwasher and garden-weeder for three solid months in the process. A bigger rug was purchased to hide the scratches and gouges in the oak flooring and the overhead lighting is now much more tamper-proof and demure than the original, the most recent stage of the old building's evolution.

It was built as the centerpiece of a small but wealthy country estate. The sprawling Georgian manor was passed down for several generations and finally fell into the hands of one Mr. Benjamin Oswald Hemingford III, a bitter hermit who never married and spent most of his extraordinarily long life holed away writing a book he never finished. When he finally died, an event which his assorted nephews and nieces (many of whom were in debt) had anticipated for far longer than they felt was just, he left the entire estate to an extremely distant cousin purely out of spite.

The cousin, Dr. Morrison, was an old music professor living in Boston. He had no idea that he had a rich foreign relative with an estate and manor near Winchester until he received the call. Extremely grateful for the windfall but feeling he had done little to deserve it, Morrison accepted the money with plans to set up a music scholarship at his college. The manor house, however, he donated along with what little land remained to Mr. Quillsh Wammy, an old acquaintance who he vaguely remembered was from England and had established several orphanages across the country.

Wammy lost no time in going to work on the place. Immediately he had a protective border wall built and the building itself remodeled as an orphanage, adding another wing for dormitories and modernizing the kitchens. Then L came along, and the House took on a second remodeling and an entirely new purpose.

The mix of old and new is as visible in the entry hall as the layers of rock in a canyon. Ancient brass candle holders still line the walls but are now wired for electric lighting; the wood paneling and carved banisters have stayed the same, but state-of-the-art security cameras gleam from the corners. One wall is decorated with a series of portraits of Mr. Wammy, all created by the students, ranging from a classic, realistic oil piece painted by Linda to a more abstract collage done by Aris depicting the House's founder with four heads and four arms, inspired by the Hindu deity Brahma. When the proud little artist first presented it for his approval, Mr. W admired it gravely for a few minutes, thanked her and told her it was quite excellent, and went about the rest of the day breaking into quiet chuckles whenever he thought of it.

It's not long after Marta has gone to the kitchen for her own cup of coffee before the students start filtering down the stairs. Mello is the first, hair still damp and arms loaded down with books and papers, making a beeline for the library. Paran and Rom are next, slouching across the hall to the kitchens to wash pots in punishment for attempting to make some highly experimental improvements to the plumbing system without permission. Barton, the House technician, comes down with his keys jangling and Concord and Hopper right behind him to be let into the computer lab. Then Kae and Icarus, math books tucked under their arms and graphing calculators in their pockets, Yuan almost tripping over his large feet on his way to the gardens to check on the hybrid vegetables he's been trying to develop (he hasn't yet produced any that Constance hasn't described as "tumorous"), then Sember, Geia, and Faris also headed to the library to do study prep for the large vertebrate practical anatomy quiz later that day.

Food summons the flood, so to speak. A few are early (including Karter, practically dragging Lazlo and Nina behind him), but right at eight o'clock almost the entire House is pouring through the foyer into the dining hall. Xie waits at the top of the stairs until the traffic has thinned and she can walk down without getting jostled. Devon deliberately trips Crash at the bottom then claims he didn't see her. An aide catches Raphael and scolds her for sliding down the banister. Most are still in pajamas, slipping in their socks on the polished floor, and some have clearly rolled out of bed not three minutes ago.

Then the tide ebbs, everyone rushing back out of the dining hall, across the foyer, and scattering throughout the manor and either straight to their classrooms, or in a frenzied dash back to their rooms to get their books and pens and notes. All morning is required classes—English as a second language, maths, world history, and rhetoric.

Hopkins stumps through again, puts on his boots, and goes outside to mow the lawn while it's still cool out. The vivid light of the stained glass window crawls across the floor and up the stairs. Marta turns the lights back off on her way upstairs. While the kids are in class the maintenance staff pass through to clean, vacuuming and combing out the rug fringe and dusting the banisters and picture frames.

Lunch sees the return of the tide, much more awake by this point and slightly more likely to be changed from pajamas into sweats or jeans.

All afternoon is elective classes, so students and professors and staff trickle through almost constantly, pattering or stomping or scuttling up and down the stairs, across the room, and in and out the front doors. The foyer grows dim as the sun travels over the back of the House, and Marta turns the lights on again. Snacks are left out in the dining hall for the students at tea-time, increasing traffic, and kitchen staff head up and down the stairs or back hallway with trays of tea and biscuits for Roger, the librarians, and any of the teachers that request one. Near shuffles to the common room with a box of dominoes so heavy that he has to put it down on every other stair and twice more in the foyer to rest. Raina, the activities aide, herds a reluctant pack of kids out the doors for some enforced exercise. Zane pads through barefoot with a pencil behind his ear and a legal pad, clicking his tape measure, and slips outside to start on the dimensions of the garden shed (he's been systematically building a millimeter-specific blueprint of the entire institution).

Supper is at six-thirty sharp, drawing the entire House back together.

Then the serious studying begins and movement through the foyer slows. Professors are in their offices, working on lesson plans or grading homework. Students, alone or in groups, can be found in the common room, the labs, the library, or their own bedrooms, reading and writing and practicing group presentations and running experiments and cursing at code that won't compile and flipping through vocabulary flashcards for a rainbow of languages. Marta and her small army of aides are on patrol, offering help to students who look frustrated and keeping an eye out for potential trouble.

Hopkins stumps back in for the last time when it gets too dark to see outside.

There's a last dining hall rush a half an hour before bedtime for evening snack, with cereal and hot chocolate and honey bread for the late studiers. Ten-thirty curfew means Marta and her minions are steering children off to their rooms, older students going of their own volition and many of the younger ones, especially Quinn, struggling or hiding or trying to cry or sweet-talk or reason their rights to a later bedtime.

Those who don't like to study in their rooms and have night passes settle down in the library until red-eye curfew at midnight. Mello is the last, Addison finally kicking him out with orders to get some sleep—he's barely awake as is, and nearly falls up the steps. A kitchen assistant heads upstairs with a carafe of coffee for the aides on night patrol.

On her way to bed the matron turns the foyer lights off.


	23. Hyena

23. Hyena

"Double trouble, there it go," Gao comments, drumming his thumbs on the surface of the table, almost stopping at the irritated look Kae shoots him down the table. Used to be that when K got crabby Fallon got crabby, and when Fallon was in a bad mood he dragged everybody down. But Fallon is gone now, and he doesn't give a stuck switchblade for what K thinks, not after what she did to his buddy, so he drums louder.

All the Dukes turn to see what he's looking at. He's exactly right. At the next table over, Mello has just sat down next to Near.

"Where the table monitor when you actually need one?" Dex mutters, scanning the dining hall. "G, can you quit that?"

"Tsssch, don't mind 'em. Maybe they tryin' a get along, _da_?" Hopper says, elbowing D in the arm when the other boy looks like he might get up. Concord, sitting on the other side of Dex, says nothing, just watches the Twins with the same fixed stare that she gives her computer screen when one of her programs is just beginning to go haywire.

"Wanna put a price on you 'pinion?" G says, unconsciously resuming the drumming and staring avidly as Mello turns to say something to Near. This is going to be _good. _M's been way too composed in the last few weeks, and that kid is like a coil of dynamite fuse; the longer he smoulders the closer you are to the end of the line. Better than Fite Nite on TV. (Terribly scripted, yes, but always a fascinating insight into what makes humans tick.) Can't hurt to have even more fun with it by winning back a few of the cigarettes he's sold.

"No bet," says H, eyes riveted to the next table over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Oughtn't bet on that kinda thing," Concord says quietly.

"Taboo and high-risk investment alla almost always bring the biggest immediate returns, people _always _gonna bet on that kinda thing," Gao retorts, not adding that she's being awfully dull, in his opinion, because Dex or Hopper would probably drop random points into one of his economics graphs again, destroying hours of work.

Linda's squirming in her seat. She's obviously dying to have a look, but she has to turn around blatantly to see. Next to her, Kae is amused, Icarus couldn't care less because she hasn't had any caffeine yet, and Jitter is how he almost always is—starting to get worked up.

"He's buggin' him 'bout something," Gao narrates for Linda, pushing his eggs idly around his plate.

"I _hear _them, what they _doing?_" Linda whispers, annoyed.

"Nothin' yet. M talkin'. N just sittin' there. Don't think he even listenin'. Now he puttin' ketchup on his plate."

"Which one?"

"White Twin."

"It none of our business," Hopper cuts him off, stabbing a large piece of bacon with his fork and cramming it into his mouth.

"_Weishenme_? Come on, they sittin' right there, obvo don't care we listenin'. Ha, M gettin' mad. Lookit him tick," says G, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Anybody else wanna take a bitty bet? I give three minutes 'til he start shoutin'."

"What kinda decibel level we talkin'?" says Lin, ignoring the clatter as J drops his fork against his plate.

Concord suddenly sits up straighter. "Dex," she says warningly.

Mello is clearly agitated, though he's still keeping his voice down, darting wary glances over toward the staff tables and the aides who are nearest, sidling between the tables to help the younger children pour juice and cut their bacon and sausage. Either unaware of or completely indifferent to (or more likely, Gao thinks, intentionally aggravating) Mello's anger, Near lets his eyes wander around the ceiling and takes a sip of his juice, and M's face gets just that little bit redder. Dex scoots back a little on the bench, tensing.

Gao ducks his head over his plate to roll his eyes. The other older students (Kae being the triply-underlined exception) are the closest things to friends he has or needs, but he'd never trust any of them either across a rigged poker table or in the stock market. They can't just keep to their eyes open and their hands to themselves and jump in only when they stand to gain something, they have to _intervene_. That's no way to win the game, or even get through it unscathed.

"Chill chill, keep out of it," Jitter mutters, fiddling nervously with his silverware, and Hopper agrees under his breath, "Not our fight. Not our place to interfere."

D turns to H, jaw clenched. "Remember what happen _last _time we decide not to interfere in somebody else's fight?"

A ripple passes over the table. Hopper stares back at his friend, face paling and knuckles tightening on his fork. "_Ouch,_" Gao mutters, Linda looks suddenly frightened, and Kae scoffs but then jumps nervously when Jitter drops his fork again.

"That not fair, D," H says quietly. "The Twins not like _him._"

"We didn't think _he _would go that far either."

For once Gao actually agrees with Hopper. Comparing M and N to A and B is way out of line, even by G's skewed (and rather limited) notions of propriety. Alt was about as normal as they came around here and Backup was a soul-sucking hookworm, digesting him alive from the inside out. The Twins, though, they're part and parcel of one another: symbiotic rather than parasitic. Gao knows it's stupid and completely unscientific, but he's always had a vague notion that if one of them actually kicked it, the other would follow immediately. It seems like they exist purely to torment each other. The fact that they also torment everyone _else_ is just collateral damage.

In any case, it's often a good source of entertainment.

"Dex," Concord says again, sitting bolt upright and one hand flying to his arm, and an instant later Mello springs up too, snarling.

"Near, I'm talking to you! _Look_ at me!"

Heads are turning all over the dining hall now. Gao has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Good thing he didn't get any takers on that bet; M barely lasted one minute, let alone three.

"They always rowin', not like they ever actually—" Hopper starts, and before he can even finish Mello proves him wrong by picking up his plate and slamming it down on the other boy's head with a resounding _thwok!_

Luckily for Near, Constance does not trust her nice china to a pack of kids; they use plastic, which is a little more forgiving on young skulls. All the same, for a split second he is clearly stunned, eyes as round as coins and slightly crossed, with ketchup dripping from his white hair. Matron Marta shouts from across the room and starts plowing her way over, but the dining hall is packed, with people who haven't sat down yet milling around the edges of the room and getting in her way. It's only a split second, though; then, deliberately, N picks up his glass and flings its contents into M's face.

The Black Twin sputters, flinging his juice-soaked fringe out of his face, then in a whirl of black and white and gold and red, they both tumble off the back of the bench, pummeling each other as well as a pair of skinny, nerdy kids who don't know beans about fist-fighting can be expected to.

Concord gasps and Dex leaps to his feet, jolting everyone on the bench, and Hopper swears, saying, "Ok, _ok—" _and D and H both scrambling over the table, sending plates and dishes and the juice pitcher spilling and toppling in all directions, with Marta shouting across the hall in Russian and an army of half-awake aides stumbling their ways through the tables to try to get to the fight. It all makes Gao think of chaos theory and the butterfly effect and exploding fractals and the minute domino shift of events and directions and the cigarette ember that sparks the inferno, and he realizes he's shrieking with hysterical laughter, and dammit, he's supposed to have that under control , which is both infuriating and hilarious. Icarus reaches across the table and gives his hair a helpful yank, and he stops, by which point Dex and Hopper have pried the two younger boys apart, still struggling, and Ma Marta is seizing the Twins by the shoulders and berating everyone in range.

M and N get hauled off to be sentenced by the Warden, though what good that does, Gao doesn't know. Figures that the two kids that hard-assed old curmudgeon would choose to dote on like they're his own would be the rottenest, least endearing of the bunch. It's pretty common knowledge that he's probably been given more than adequate evidence to have one or both of them scrubbed—except somehow it's also common knowledge that they're the favorites for the succession.

_Ah, Wammy's_, Gao thinks, _seat of objectivism and the quest for the truth, and carnival funhouse of irony and insanity_. It almost sets him off again, but Concord notices and pounds him on the back a few times to knock the crazy out of him.

* * *

_Weishenme - _Chinese: Why?_  
_


	24. Purple

24. Purple

Beckon could happily play Shostakovich concertos for days without stopping to rest. However, since last term, when he maybe neglected his other classes a smidgeon to spend more time with the music (well, ok, he barely scraped by in maths and literature) the algebra professor has taken it upon himself to check the Violet Room every evening to ensure that he detaches himself from the piano and studies for his other classes at some point.

Dr. Olive-Green (as B privately refers to him—his name is actually Chamaly or something weird like that) has just now extracted him from the Violet Room with a friendly reminder about the algebra quiz tomorrow morning. It's not that Beckon needs a reminder, not really. He was peripherally aware that something might be going on in that class, it just…it doesn't interest him that much. It's such a blah, taupe kind of subject. Beckon hates taupe. Taupe is a lame color.

Perhaps he will study his Russian. Russian because of Dmitri Shostakovich, of course—he's composing a symphony in tribute to him, and he thinks incorporating the rhythm of the Russian language will add some interesting elements. He is Beckon's idol, right after L and Mr. W, of course. Ever since he first heard Piano Sonata no. 2 when he was seven, replicating it perfectly after one hearing, he's felt a special kinship with the long-dead composer. His music is sugar-white and charcoal and scarlet and violent purple, sharp and jaggedly and cleverly mocking and fascinating. The day Ma Marta noticed Beckon was squinting at the boards during class and decided he ought to have glasses excited him terribly, because now, with his little round lenses perched on his little snub nose, Beckon thinks he even kind of _looks _like Shostakovich.

Humming to himself, he dawdles on his way back to his room, stopping often to look at the paintings on the wall and out windows and peek through doorways. Everything he sees he repeats to himself what it's called and what color it is (_is_, not looks like) in Russian.

It often takes him a while to go anywhere.

He's finally made his meandering way to the second floor when the wind is knocked out of him by a much more vocal distraction.

"Beck!"

"Ack!" He recaptures his glasses before they can slip off the end of his nose, settling them back where they belong and straightening them fussily. "Aris, you know I don' like it when you s'prise me like that," he chides her softly.

"Whatever sorry guess what," A says, fingers twitching as she just barely resists the urge to shake him in her excitement. It's easy to tell that she's excited once you get to know her, despite the flat tone of voice, because her eyes get really big and her brows go really high and she talks so fast it's hard to tell what she's saying. Whatever it is must be a good thing, because Una, drifting silently behind her, is actually smiling a little.

"What?"

"There a new girl, Mr. W send her today."

Beckon brightens immediately. "Mr. W visiting?" he says, looking around as though the old man might be coming down the hall this very moment. All of the children adore Wammy—after all, he saved most of them personally from orphanages or social work offices or police stations. He's always sunshine-yellow and light bright blue and interested in what they're working on, eager to examine their projects and listen to their performances.

"No," Una says, a little downcast, and he deflates just as quickly.

"Oh. That too ba—"

"Never mind Mr. W for now, we talkin' 'bout the girl!" says Aris, rolling her eyes.

"Oh. Right. This one…F, right?"

"No," Una murmurs as Aris says with exaggerated patience, "No, Beck. Faris been here almost a month now. This one G for Geia."

"Faris?" Beckon blinks a few times. "Really?"

"_Yes, _Beck. He the one who always on the sick list cuz his seizures, a'member? Never mind him," A steamrolls onward at his blank look. "We talkin' 'bout G!"

"Right. Erm…what about her?" Beckon says, trying to at least _look_ more focused, because Aris gets pretty annoyed when he's not focused, but he's still pondering how on earth he managed to be oblivious to the presence of this Faris person for a month. He tries to remember if he's seen any new colors around and not thought about it at the time. Lower-case f is a greenish sort of letter, so he's picturing him looking a little bit like J, but for some reason people don't correlate to the colors of their letters like he thinks they should so he really can't base—

"She play violin!"

"Who does?" B says absently.

"Beck! You not listnenin'!" Patience spent, Aris actually does grab his shoulders and give him a very tiny shake. "Geia! The new girl! Plays violin! You know what that mean, Beck?"

Realization dawns visibly across his face. "…We can have our quartet—oh—we can play a full Shostakovich piece!"

"_Now _he got it," Aris tells Una, as closely approximating glee as she ever gets, and the shorter girl smiles back briefly. "She will, too, Beck. Sember said she was real happy when he told her we been waiting for another string player."

"Wonderful," B murmurs to himself, staring at nothing and mind fixed already on what music he's going to need from his folder of Shostakovich works. "I gonna go get my viola—"

"Not _now,"_ Aris says, catching him by the arm as he starts to wander off. "She just get here five hour ago, give her a lil' time at least!"

"Oh. Right," Beckon says reluctantly. Time for what? What could make someone feel better about the sudden upheavals in their life than a little bit of chamber music? Some people make no sense at all.

"Tomorrow, Beck," Una consoles him, her voice just barely audible.

"Yes," he agrees. He can hardly wait. Little g is a pleasant sort of pale yellow. It should go nicely with the rest of them. All thoughts of algebra quizzes now completely shoved out the back of his mind, Beckon dwells happily on violins and Shostakovich quartets.

* * *

**AN: I feel like these are kinda taking longer for me to post...I promise you that I'm not losing steam on the story, it's just that I'm now actually trying to put them in some kind of sensical order, and that's not necessarily the order I'm writing them in. So it may take longer to update, but I have a few of the later chapters written.**

**Dmitri Shostakovich not of my own creation, of course. He was a child prodigy and Russian composer during the World Wars and the Soviet era. I fully recommend youtubing some of his work-Symphony no. 5 is a really good one.  
**


	25. Dig

25. Dig

Yuan works his fingers deeper into the dirt. It's a little bit cool outside, mist-laced and damp, and the leaves are dripping in the just-dawn quiet. If he digs deep enough though, Y thinks he can feel warmth, radiating from the heart of the earth itself.

Marta will scold, as she always does, when he goes back inside with mud-covered hands and mud-covered feet and mud on his shirt and trousers and converts it all to mud on the floor and on stair railings and chairs, but it's worth these few moments every morning that he can be away from dead-tree and artificial-fiber floors and feel the ground. The Matron and maintenance did end up winning the battle over putting plastic down on the floor of his room (he hates the feel of plastic under his feet even worse than the carpet) but it means he can keep his potted plants in there now. He likes plants.

He likes the garden better.

Down, down, deep, Yuan thinks, imagining or willing his fingers to twist and knot and branch like roots, anchoring him in this one spot, growing slow and steady as smaller beings shoot up and wither around him, thick-skinned and strong and impervious to wind and rain and words and blows.

_This is how we could be. That is how people _should_ be,_ he thinks.

No one he's suggested that to has ever agreed with him, though. And it's not what they are, not yet; distantly he becomes aware that his stomach is growling, and that his roots are fingers and cannot actually absorb nutrients from the ground, and that he will be late to breakfast if he doesn't get a move on. Slowly, reluctantly, he uproots himself, and slowly becoming small and gawky and clumsy-footed again.

_Click!_

Startled, Yuan falls over and lands on his butt in the dirt. Quinn, a stringy little girl much younger than Y, is crouched several feet away, peeking over her giant camera.

Yuan is not at all certain what the appropriate social procedure is in this situation, though Dr. Bull has been working with him on how to have conversations—make eye contact, he knows that's important, so he studiously does so, but the longer he stares the more awkward it feels. Should it be? He hopes that Q will say something first to spare him the trouble, but she's distracted, fidgeting and eyes darting from Yuan to a passing bird to Yuan to a rustling shrub and back to Yuan again. Her hazel eyes are much too big in her face, unnaturally round and bugged a little. Yuan can't help thinking she's one of the oddest humans he's ever set eyes on, now that he's getting a good look at her. Like a tiny, twitchy tree frog. Y hasn't talked to her much. Mostly he's heard her screaming and throwing tantrums when she doesn't want to go to bed or to class. That doesn't seem like a very interesting thing to talk about, though. Mulling over the problem, he thinks falling back on well-established convention and saying "Good morning" might be a good start, but if Q gives the traditional repeating reply, he's not sure where he'll go from there.

Before he quite comes to a decision, Quinn finally speaks. "You were being a tree."

"Yes." That's easy enough.

"I never seen somebody be a tree b'fore." Her fingers fiddle at the camera strap. "How come you doin' that?"

"I…" Yuan wavers a moment, then thinks, She's just a little kid. And worrying about what other people think is a problem for short-lived creatures. "Cuz I'm practicing. For when we evolve ourselves."

Quinn stoops quickly, and for a short embarrassing moment he thinks he's lost her attention already, but she's just prodding at the small white flowers of a pea plant, leaning down to sniff at them curiously. Aiming her camera, she fiddles with a few knobs and dials, sticks the lens right into a cluster of blossoms and clicks a picture. "You think we gonna evolve inna trees? I don't think that possible. An' would take kazillions of years anyhow."

Yuan smiles magnanimously. "I didn't say we evolve into trees. I think we evolve ourselves into part-trees. We got the technology—cloning and splicing and genetic manipulation—trees live longer than people, you know—and they produce oxygen—it would solve deforestation, and a lot of diseases, and, well, and other stuff," he concludes a little lamely, not quite ready to share the big reason. Trees are still, trees are strong. Redwoods and bristlecones aren't fragile like little boys. He doesn't reason it quite as explicitly as that, but there's that awareness there, that being that way makes him feel _better._

"Oh," Q says, eyes following a rabbit that skitters across the grounds then pauses. Quickly she lifts her camera and twists a dial, making the lens spin and whir. "Is bein' a tree hard?" _Click._

"No. It very easy," Yuan tells her.

"Is it fun?" Letting the camera swing free around her neck, Quinn hops over the peas into the stripe of bare soil between the rows. "Can I try?"

"Um…I guess so…." Bouncing animatedly in place, her fingers tapping and twitching, Yuan thinks he's never seen someone less tree-like in his life. A fast-growing vine, perhaps, or rattling long grass, but definitely not a tree. "Well first just…hold still."

"I _am_ holding still," Quinn protests, hands dancing impatiently on her knees. "Now what?"

He supposes that may be as still as she will get, so he leans forward, burying his hands into the soil again. "You gotta put down roots. Like this. Dig 'em down. Not like that!" he admonishes, as she scrapes away eagerly at the dirt. "Slower."

Chastened, the little girl quiets a bit, wriggling her fingers in the dark soil. Yuan struggles to put into words what goes through his mind when he puts down roots.

"That's better. Just concentrate on, um, you know, reaching down and stuff—"

"Oh!"

For a moment Yuan thinks she felt it, the earth and slow-growing sleepiness and warmth of wellbeing that he always feels when he's 'being a tree', as Quinn puts it. Far from relaxing, however, Q dives down so her nose is a few scant centimeters from the ground and declares excitedly, "Look! A worm!"

It is indeed. Yuan examines the creature gravely. It waves tentatively in the open air, then begins squirming its way back to shelter.

_Click!_

"I don't think I would be a tree," Quinn says, dropping her camera back against her thin chest with a painful-sounding _thunk _and hopping back to her feet, wiping her filthy hands on her pajama trousers. Yuan privately agrees. "D'you think Cookie made waffles today?"

"I dunno. Maybe." He doesn't much care (nutrients are nutrients) but it reminds him again that he is quite hungry. Clambering clumsily to his feet, he limps after Quinn. She moves a lot faster, but it's not hard to keep up because she keeps stopping every time a scrap of flower-color or wind-movement catches her eye to exclaim and click her camera at it.

Two days later, his attention is yanked from his plant biochemistry textbook by an enthusiastic shout.

"Yuan!"

Quinn scrambles up into the chair beside him. "Look," she says happily, shoving something under his nose, then yelps as the stack of photos in her hands goes scattering across the table. "Oops—"

"Keep it down b'fore Addy kick us out," he whispers, mortified, as kids all over the library turn to see what all the noise is and Addison raises his eyebrows, making a volume-dial gesture with one hand.

"I being quiet!" Quinn says in a stage whisper, standing up on the chair so she can heap all of her photographs back into a haphazard pile. Glancing over the pictures, Y notices the one of the pea blossoms, a shell-pale cloud of porcelain curves glimmering green with early sunlight, and of the rabbit, poised and looking back in such a way that it seems to be gesturing to a friend beyond the frame of the photo. They're all quite eye-catching. Suddenly, another is thrust before his eyes.

"Here it is!"

Yuan has to lean back to see it. It's _him, _he realizes, astonished. And he doesn't look like he does in the bathroom mirror, either, gangly and knobbly and resigned. The way Quinn cropped the shot, the trees by the garden shed are visible behind him and give the illusion of being the same size. The dappling of the light in his tumbled hair blends almost seamlessly with the light on the leaves and his cinnamon-skinned arms appears almost to be one of their tall trunks. His misshapen foot is hidden by his folded legs, and he looks…peaceful. Like a dryad, Yuan thinks. Like a tree. Q is beaming at him, and he tentatively returns the smile.

"It came out real good, huh? I make a copy for you, _hao ba_? Here y'go!" Dropping the photo onto his book, Quinn scoops up the other photos in her arms and jumps off the chair again with a clatter. "Bye!"

"Thanks," he says absently, picking up the photo and staring at it.


	26. Laissez faire

26. _Laissez-faire_

Mello can't see from where he's sitting what this guy is playing, but it's annoying as hell. There's crashing and the roar of hundreds of tiny yelling voices and explosions and other sound effects, all on top of a booming symphonic march that skips like a scratched CD.

The invasion of his study space is intolerable. No one is ever in the game room on Thursday evenings. They're all in the library, studying—which is exactly why Mello is here, doing the same. He doesn't tolerate any sort of distraction while he's reading old case files. He _can't _focus with any sort of distraction.

And this is more than just _sort of _a distraction.

Another crash rattles the speakers and Mello's eyes narrow almost to slits. The new guy doesn't even notice. He's completely fixated on his game, slumped back into the couch and his mouth hanging slightly open, hardly blinking. He could very well be dead if it weren't for the spastic movement of his hands over the wireless touchscreen balanced on his knees. Obviously he's new. They've been coming in so fast, as many as one or two a month, that Mello has stopped bothering to keep track. Not only does he not recognize him, but he hasn't fled the heat of Mello's glare yet.

"Do you _mind_?" he finally says, loading as much poison as he can (which is probably enough to drop a horse) into his words.

"Huh?" New guy startles. "Uh, nah. Go ahead," he mumbles distractedly, not seeming to be aware of or care about what it is precisely that he's replying to.

Being ignored is not something Mello responds to very well.

With a slam, Mello snaps the heavy book of case files shut. "Hopefully some time in ESL will clarify the finer points of English nuance that seem to be lost on you," he snarls. "_I _mind."

"Oh. This bothering you?" Without breaking eye contact with the game, he feels around on the couch with one hand, finds the remote half-stuck between the cushions, and turns down the volume. "Why're you studying in _here_? Isn't there a library or something?"

"People know not to break my concentration when I'm in here," Mello says pointedly. It always helps to throw his reputation around a little. This kid seems older than most of the new kids, closer to his own age, so may be more difficult to intimidate; but time and the stories others tell about him always get them eventually.

"Huh." He doesn't seem impressed or intimidated. He still has the exact same expression as he did before Mello even spoke up, one of slack-jawed concentration. "You must be one of the Twins. You the White or the Black?"

"_WHAT_ did you say?"

Now he's livid, and before he is quite conscious of giving the directive to his feet to stand and cross the room he's looming over the insolent stranger, fists trembling and ears burning hot.

The kid slumps over sideways so he can see the giant TV screen, which Mello is blocking. "The Black, then. Mello. So you're not actually_ black_. You just _wear_ black. I wondered about that."

"Near and I are _NOT_ twins! Or associated in any way!" he bites out.

"Yeah, I know. Some kid said that."

"Who was it?" Mello demands furiously. He hasn't heard the nickname 'Twin' in ages. It brings up painful—no, not painful, he contradicts himself, _aggravating_—memories of his earlier childhood, when he and Near were actually friendly, before the brat turned into a stuck-up, sneering...well, brat. It seems almost inconceivable now. The name had been branded on them by Even, who said they looked different but sounded the same, whatever that meant. She always creeped him out as a child, in the few months before she was scrubbed. Mello was aware that some of the Crusties might call him and Near the Twins, but he's never heard any of the younger kids using the term. Not in a couple years at least. He didn't think it was still used —why the hell has anyone kept it up? The very thought of the other House students thinking of them as a set incenses him.

Oblivious to the rapid-fire slideshow of rage and offense flickering over Mello's face, the new kid makes the infinitesimal one-shouldered shrug he proffers seem like a Herculean effort. "Uh, I dunno? Some runt? Is there a difference between them?"

Fair enough. Mello often gets the lower-case letters mixed up. Almost all of them seem to be about the same age, Near's age or a year younger, and none of them have shown any likelihood of contesting them for the title. It's the first time he's heard someone else say so, though, and it surprises him when he almost laughs.

Mello can't remember the last time he laughed out loud.

"And who the hell are you?" he snaps instead.

"Matt, I guess." Like an inverted pendulum, 'Matt I guess' lurches upright again and slumps down to the other side. "Look, blocking my line of sight does add a certain level of challenge, but if you really want to make this game harder we could try the multiplayer." He makes a vague gesture with one hand. "Give you something to really get mad about. This thing is buggier than a swamp."

"I'm too busy for games," Mello sneers automatically, but he suddenly feels hollow as he says it, and he realizes with a surge of self-condemning guilt that he'd really rather take a break than pick the book back up.

"Studying, huh?"

"Got a problem with that?"

"Whatev. Suit yourself," Matt says.

He seems no less engaged in his game, but Mello think he sounds a bit disappointed. It's…surprising. None of the other students would ever think to ask him to join them for anything. Not that he _wants _to. He's not well liked and he doesn't try to be. Mello has better things to do. He doesn't need friends. He's gotten along just fine without friends ever since he and Near became rivals, and he's _never_ missed being friends with that brat, no, _not_ _one tiny bit_.

…Perhaps a _tiny _bit. Not Near, mind you. Just…having someone to talk to about both classwork and things that aren't classwork.

"What the hell is this stupid game, anyway?" he says, turning on his heel to glare at the screen.

"Demo 3.8."

It _looks_ like a demo. An army of red stick figures swarm and stumble over a grid landscape, attacking a wall guarded by blue stick figures. The view freezes and stutters momentarily as Matt zooms out to show that it's not just a wall, but a many-tiered sprawling fortress, with several different bands of red figures using different tactics: from catapults to digging to a group that seems to be trying to start a landslide on the hill the fortress is built against. Parts of the grid flicker every so often, and every once in a while entire platoons simply disappear.

"Where did you get this piece of crap?" Mello asks, arching his brows disdainfully as Matt herds a few stick figures who have apparently forgotten their orders back toward the fortress.

"Whatshername. Older chick. Always looks like she's being put on the spot. Harmony or something."

"Concord?"

"Sure? I guess she and the guy with the huge nose wrote it a few years back. Pretty flexible gameplay. Really buggy. Makes it more interesting though. For some reason if you can get enough guys running straight at a block of wall with a window in it, that part of the wall just goes _poof_. Kinda cool. See, watch this."

It takes a moment for him to round up enough troops (the individual stick figures seem to be pretty stupid, wandering off when they're not being supervised) but sure enough, once the column starts running they pass right through the fortress wall.

"Haha, this is the funny part."

Mello watches, bemused, as Matt's soldiers start pushing the blue soldiers that swarm to meet them into the square that used to be wall. Suddenly the wall snaps back into existence, leaving the enemy figures trapped, little stick legs waving from the solid structure as though they're still running. Matt chuckles madly.

It _is _pretty funny.

Matt is tolerable, Mello decides. He's going to scrub out within months with that lackadaisical attitude, of course, but the blonde gets the impression he wouldn't care much. That's intriguing. He's certainly no threat, but he's not a whiny little wuss like most of the kids around here either.

And he'd almost forgotten what it was like to not be fighting. Not to be constantly defending himself, or striking first to head off a potential attack. He doesn't have this kid cowed, like he does all the others he has no reason to be afraid of—it's more like competing is just more effort than the other boy is willing to expend.

"Fine then," Mello says exasperatedly, as though Matt has been nagging him all this time. "Where's the other keypad?"


	27. Police

**AN: I've been dying to get out something about Hack Acme, heeehehe. Hope you like it. I got a little overexcited about the idea and came up with this whole set of rules that will probably never come up in the story.  
**

**Also, I've started a mini banner series of drawings for each letter over on dA (link to my page on my profile). Only got A and B so far but I hope to get through a lot if not all of the characters from UOR.**

* * *

27. Police

"Right then!" Qarri barks, to bring her little group to order.

It's a bit of an odd crew, Zane and Hunter and little Ochre, who Q wasn't sure was even old enough to play in the annual Hack ACME game until Gao, their team captain, sent her the team rosters. She's a right little curmudgeon for someone so young. But Z and H know the drill and will probably work well together, with their respective obsessions with measurements and graphs, and O will just have to learn doublequick. Besides, though she doesn't trust him as far as she could throw him, Qarri concedes that G's judgment in matters of personnel is excellent, and he wouldn't have put them all together as the team tech squad if they couldn't handle their task.

Everybody looks forward to summer at the House, though it's no holiday despite having no classes—if anything, their work during the summer is more grueling than the other three terms. But it's also the fun work. Summer is when they have their concerts and demos and presentations and little science fairs, and have the chance to show off what they've been working on. There are scary things too, like field trips to Outside museums and companies and the planetarium, and in the last few years the older students learning to drive (a source of both hilarity and mild terror for younger students and staff alike, as the nervous teenagers who aren't ready for the road yet go rocketing around the yard with Hopkins the groundskeeper in his souped-up golf cart).

But easily the most anticipated part of summer is the thirty days in July and August that mark the span of the Hack ACME game, or HackMe, as the students have come to call it. It's become better and better every year as there are more students to participate and the judges get better at assigning the four teams evenly. Qarri still holds a grudge over the memorable game two years ago, when Concord and Matt were both put on the ACME Corporation team and jointly came up with an impenetrable encryption system that none of the other programmers (such as Q) had been able to crack.

This year Qarri's team is the Police, so she's now been on each team once (the other three being ACME Corporation, the Hackers, and the Media). She's wanted to be on this team all along, and now that she finally is she is determined that this year _her _team is finally going to win. All year she's had to put up with that snotty Isabel's petty smirking over how her team won last HackMe. Now that she's Police and Isabel is Media, Q will have the unmitigated pleasure of putting that blond witch out of the game for two days every time she lies in the daily Media report—which Qarri is certain will be often, as she can't help it. The thought brings a warm glow to her grudge-bearing little heart.

"So. Where we start?" Hunter prompts, bringing Qarri out of her reverie.

"Ok!" Irritated to be caught daydreaming, she taps on the whiteboard with a meterstick. They're meeting in Hunter's room because no one from other teams will be able to spy (Qarri made a sweep for bugs already) and he somehow convinced Marta to allow him, with some help from Paran and Hopper, to install several floor-to-ceiling panels of marker board on moving tracks along one wall.

"Right, ACME team get the Red Stack at 6 am, in half hour," Qarri says, indicating the scorebox labeled ACME with a sharp rap of the ruler. Hunter winces. "We can expect Concord will get that one all boxed up by midnight tonight, so gotta strike asap or we gonna be hackin' her wall."

"Concord on ACME again?" Ochre says flatly. The look of grumpy solemnity that seems to be permanently stamped on her small, pouty face deepens slightly. "She on that one when alla other team all score negative, _da_?"

Qarri scowls. "Yes," she says shortly. "But she _only_ programmer on ACME team this year. _But _they got Jitter and Near, so they strategy gonna be tight. And you oughta know that already, O, Gao send out the rosters last night. Pay 'tenshun."

Ochre frowns, leaning forward in Hunter's bean bag to prop her elbows on her knees and plop her chin into her hands.

"S'k then. They got the Red Stack. We gotta get those files, or at least tag them—"

"What the Red Stack?"

Qarri eyes the younger girl with burgeoning dislike and Zane lets his tape measure slide home with a loud clap.

"You even read the rulebook?" Hunter asks, giving Ochre an incredulous look.

"Ok look here fishie," Qarri snaps. "Red Stack is a buncha files on Wham server 'bout ACME's 'illegal' activities. This year it bribing politicians or something like that—"

"Story go they rigged a town election to get support to build a dam," Hunter interjects.

"—right, so we the Po-leez gotta get all them files an' prove what they did. An' we gotta keep the Hackers and the Media from gettin' em, or from gettin' _our _information about ACME, or from lettin' on what we doin'. An' if we don't get a move on now, we got no advantage and we stuck wastin' points on bribes and Gao and Devon never gonna stop bitchin' bout it. So read the rulebook and take this serious! We gotta _win _this year!" Qarri growls, getting more and more heated as she speaks.

"'K fine, I got it, go on with the plan," Ochre sighs.

"Right I will. Now—" seizing a red marker, Qarri starts scribbling pseudocode on the board. "C won't leave the Stack unprotected before she can get up a new wall for it, but it take time. Can't use old tricks for a new game but she might for temps. This the basic program she use last time—" She shakes Hunter off as he attempts to swipe the marker out of her hand. "—_What_ you doin', eh?"

"Don't press so hard, you gonna smash the tip of the marker in and then it useless," H says, snatching it away. "Just let me do it."

Zane lets out an annoyed sigh from where he's sprawled on the floor.

Qarri keeps her voice down with a massive effort. "Look, am I the only one who wanna win this thing or what? You want I go, say 'sorry G, you wormie tech squad can't even sneak a peek at a Ev'rest-size kablammo of semi-walled files—just go tell th'other captains we surrender—'"

"What about this bit here. Concord use this algorithm a lot," Hunter says defensively, circling several lines of Qarri's writing. "Easy to tag with a Tex-Pack virus."

"If we could do that we could plant a proteus copy, sneak him in there before she set up the wall and read what she do when she upload it," Zane agrees, idly stretching his arms as far apart as he can and checking the resulting span on the tape measure.

"Heck, we could block C's access to the server for a few minutes at least and try to get the files before she does," Ochre suggests, throwing up her hands.

"That more like it!" Qarri says, grinning fiercely. All or none of those might work, but it's the attitude that makes the difference, and the only attitude Q finds acceptable for this game is relentless, grudge-avenging gusto. "We better get started first on blocking C and intercepting the Stack. Two more start-off ideas in next five minutes, then we start implementation. Here the—_fine_, Hunter, take the _blakaba_ marker—here the specs for Wham server—"

And so summer kicks into gear.


	28. Rocket Science

**AN: Wooo, finally hit the point where I can start uploading chapters I wrote ages ago now.**

**If you haven't checked it out already, I've started a character letter banner series over on dA. As of now I've got A-D of the first alphabet. Link to my gallery is on my profile.**

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28. Rocket Science

"Ready?" Raphael yells, bonking her helmet excitedly into Train's.

"Ready!" Train blares back in her face, bonking her back with equal enthusiasm.

"Round the shed roof and back round the garden twenny time! Right?"

"Right!"

"Ok, Karter!" R shouts at the top of her lungs, even though K is standing right next to her. "We ready!"

A stopwatch in each hand, the older boy answers with an eager salute. "Okaaaay!—Ready—set—GO!"

The instant K's thumbs jam the stopwatches, the two model planes tear down the launch ramp, roaring and spitting blue flames, and fling themselves into the air. Grinning like a pair of maniacs, R and T throw their entire bodies into working their remote controls, nearly whacking each other as they swerve them about wildly. In less than five seconds the hand-built stealth jets, each nearly a half meter across, have veered in a tight circle over the garden shed and are screaming by.

A few kids (along with the Professor Kepple, who's videotaping this experiment for later review, and several nervous aides wielding fire extinguishers) are cheering and heckling from the front steps, but Raphael doesn't hear them; all that's in her head is velocity and centrifugal force and the dopplering roar of the planes, and the imagined tick of the stopwatch.

One of these models, upon striking someone at their current speed, could probably seriously maim someone on impact, even kill them. Kepple helped them put up a plexifort bunker for Raphael, Train, and Karter, and everyone else has to stay a good way back. They're lucky they can still race at all—last time one of their planes crashed (Train's, Raphael is happy to remind him whenever he shows some sign of forgetting) it left a skidmark four meters long and twenty centimeters deep in the usually pristine lawn and utterly demolished one of Hopkins' prized apple saplings. The Warden had to intervene directly to secure them permission to continue their aerodynamism experiments. One of the benefits of his knowing more about soldiers than kids is that his idea of what acceptable activities for kids are is a little warped. As long as they don't hurt each other and are being productive, he gives them as loose a rein as Mr. W did, if not more so. Still, R is sure the groundskeeper gives them the evil eye when no one else is looking.

In any case, letting one's attention wander while controlling one of these babies can result in serious damage, whether from the plane or from an enraged Hopkins, so she stays on task—and who would want to daydream right now anyway?

Her stealth fighter, though not very stealthy per se with its acidically pink hull, is a thing of precisely engineered beauty, a fire-spouting work of aluminum-alloy origami. They would have liked to use titanium, but that was where Marta drew the line. Despite that, hers is most definitely about ten zillion times as awesome as Train's, and she's positive it will be faster too, and that she's a better flier. She wheedled Hunter's help in—ah—_borrowing_ a digital copy of T's flight equations (it's only fair, Raphael knows for a fact that Train has probably done the same to her, just because he's Train) and though hers give less maneuverability, they have better speed, so she has the advantage in a linear track like this.

In what seems like a mere instant they've already zipped through fifteen laps.

They're about even, but that's okay—with an extra burst of speed in the last lap she's sure to win. On every turn Train gains slightly, but on every straight stretch she gains slightly more.

But hang on a second—he _is _gaining!

In a flash of adrenaline chill she realizes that he's actually getting accelerated momentum from his point-wheeling turns, and in the rush of it she has only an instant to think perhaps she can turn just a hair sharper on the last turn and still win, and a tiny snag is all it takes. It's unclear which plane actually collides into which, but the tips of their wings catch and R and T are the only ones who have any forewarning of the spinning, metal-tearing crumple of force and speed that results, careening into the ornamental pond with a colossal splash and billow of steam.

Dimly Raphael becomes aware of the hollering of their little audience on the porch. Karter is staring open-mouthed at the rippling water, looking as though he was slapped in the face with a frozen fish—but his thumbs have automatically hit the stop buttons. Mouth still open, he raises the watches to read them.

"Fifty-six point oh-seven-two seconds," is the verdict.

Her eyes meet Train's. He's obviously thinking the exact same thing she is.

"That was _wicked_!"

K steps back to avoid the helmet-bonking and high-fiving.

The excitement still hasn't abated five minutes later, as they're wading into the pond to retrieve their fallen planes—hastily, because the last thing they want is for Hopkins to discover they've at minimum petrified his precious koi. Raphael has never heard the grouchy old groundskeeper refer to the pondfish with any particular affection, but the apple trees weren't all that special either 'til they killed one so she's pretty sure they'd turn out to be quite dear to his heart after all if he caught wind that they'd been somehow injured.

Their chattering conversation occasionally interrupted with curses and grunts of effort, they lug the heavy, mud-and-water-logged planes out of the pond, trailing bits of oozy greenery behind them. Their lovely shiny planes are now a pink-and-silver heap of sharp-sheered edges and fzzting electronics, but hey, they flew, didn't they? And did you see how _fast_? Way better than last time, by a long stretch, and next time will be even better. Even the prospect of writing up their after-test reports on how and why the crash occurred doesn't dampen their spirits.

There is one point of disagreement, of course.

"I alla gonna beat you if we hadn't crashed," Train says, strutting as much as is possible when weighed down with thirty pounds of scrap metal and looking out with a bit of paranoia for a vengeful Hopkins.

"Whaaaaa? Nuh-_uh_, T, you flyin' hunk'a scrubble bait barely on my tail."

"Pff, ha, yeah. All that girlie-paint weigh it down, prob'ly."

Professor Kepple half-heartedly attempts to act stern over the arguable failure of their experiment, but let's be honest, what engineer doesn't like to watch loud, fast-moving metal objects smash into each other? It's a far cry better than being stuck still in his old windowless closet of an office, shared with that fellow who never stopped clicking his pen and who seemed to have a moral problem with showers, teaching hungover undergraduates who aren't listening anyway that F=ma. He's just happy in the confidence that his students can design and build stealth planes in the first place, and that within a day or two of reviewing the damage and their equations they'll be able to report exactly what happened.

While they've been gingerly poking about in the water for plane bits he's gotten towels and a tarp for them to pile the wreckage on, to save them all from Marta's certain wrath if they got a single molecule of mud or pondwater inside. She's already had to replace the foyer rug once thanks to Train.

Between the three of them they manage to haul it all in the back door and into the physics lab without encountering either Marta or Hopkins, though Constance gives them a raised-brow look as they sneak (insofar as it is possible to sneak while lugging a clanking tarp of metal pieces) through the kitchen. It looks as though they've got off scot-free.

Until they go to scamper back upstairs to change into dry clothes before assessing the damage, and find Hopkins in the entryway with a palm-sized shard of neon pink aluminum alloy in one hand and a you-killed-my-koi kind of look on his craggy face.

"Oh, I was looking for that," says Raphael, making an admirable attempt at a winning smile.


	29. Unchained

**AN: Hint...scenes are in backward chronological order.**

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29. Unchained

_One minute left._

It's all happened so fast.

Hands shaking, Fallon writes a name twice on the back of a now worthless page of his international policy notes, rips it in half. Gao takes his half with a terse nod and Jitter takes the other, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He's lost. His limbs feel heavy and loose in their sockets, and his brain doesn't know what to tell them to do. Everything is blank. This very moment the car is waiting for him in front of the House—no longer _his _home—and Ma Marta is waiting for him at the door, crying herself, and he knows others are watching—from the stairs, from doorways, listening on the taps, every eye and ear in the House trained on him, including _hers_, though she's nowhere to be seen. Suddenly he finds himself buried in an embrace; by some kind of consensus that he didn't notice in his blanked-out state, his two best friends have sandwiched him in a bear hug. That's the last straw, and he feels the tears hot on his face.

"As soon as we old enough we gonna come find you," Jitter says hoarsely.

"You gonna be fine," Gao says. "Gonna take those wormbaits apart. No problem."

He's never believed in God but F prays that they're both right.

_One day left._

It takes several seconds for Dr. Torres' words to sink in.

"No," he says, too stunned to say anything else. "No—"

"This isn't a punishment, Fallon," the psychiatrist says gently. "This is for your own protection."

"But—I've been taking the meds again like I was supposed to, I swear I've been taking them all—I can do better—"

"Fallon," she says, trapping his hands in hers and meeting his eyes earnestly. "I know you're doing your best. It's not that we don't think you're trying. It's just that…the demands and stress here are doing more harm than help. They'll be able to take better care of you at Cygnet—"

Does this woman not understand that that's even _worse, _that he'd much rather there be something he could do to prove that he can handle things, instead of being told that he's a hopeless case? Yanking his hands away, F curls up into the chair, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking, shaking his head frantically. She's saying other things, maybe logical, maybe comforting, none of it what he wants to hear. Before he probably would have screamed, struggled, hit her, but he's already beaten down, so what would be the point?

"Please," he begs, last-ditch. "_Please_ don't send me out there—"

_Five days left._

Fallon has only been in Roger's office once or twice, and that when he was much younger. Usually Ma Marta takes care of discipline, as it's well known that the Warden is a busy, business-minded sort of man who dislikes dealing with people face-to-face—especially children. F is not exactly a child anymore, but he's already about as low as he gets (seafloor low, crushing lightless deepsea low), and knowing that Roger probably sees his presence here as a nuisance makes him feel chastised before the old man even opens his mouth.

"We have investigated the accusations Kae has made against you," the Warden says, peering over his glasses at him.

Fallon knows he didn't take advantage of K. They never even went all the way. Knowing it doesn't mean he can prove it though. The security footage will have been useless, because though they were publicly going out, they did make efforts to have as much privacy as was really plausible. The timing is suspect, and that counts in his favor; K's claims look like revenge (and that's exactly what it is, he's sure) but that in itself isn't proof of his innocence.

What it all comes down to is Icarus.

He never hid anything from Gao and Jitter, so they know the truth, but everyone knows they'd happily lie for him if they had to. Concord, Dex, and Hopper would be reliable, but they've refused to take sides—probably the best move for them, and disappointing but not unexpected. Linda would say whatever she had to in questioning to wheedle out more information from the questioner, making her useless as a witness, even if she did know anything. Interrogating the Twins or lower would be a waste of time.

Icarus, though—F is sure Kae confided in Icarus after the time they almost…did it. But the two of them have been best friends for years, and right now, Fallon is also sure that Icarus lied to save her friend's reputation.

"I have come to the conclusion that her allegations are false," says the headmaster. Fallon nods numbly, feeling as though he ought to be relieved but it hasn't broken through yet. _Thank you, thank you, thank you, Icarus._

"However," he goes on. "Your behavior over the last few days has given the matron and Dr. Torres some concern for your safety. It has come to our attention that you stopped taking the medication Dr. Torres prescribed to you, resulting in the possibility of self-harm and considerable emotional distress."

_What a way to put it, _Fallon thinks vaguely, _'Considerable emotional distress,' hell. I sure hope the Warden never had kids. They'd be more messed up than me._

"You are to resume your medication immediately, and you will be excused from your classes until Dr. Torres is satisfied that your emotional state is stabilized."

"Yes, sir."

_One week left._

He's Prometheus unchained, he could break through a cement wall with his bare hands right now if he wanted to, hell, he could fly over the roof in one bound. It's not like it was, way back when, when he blazed and dove and skyrocketed, he's been cheeking his pills for a week but he took them for a long time before that and it takes time for them to wear off. Still it's like he sees color—through a thin film, but the colors are finally _there_. And he can _scream_, yeah, scream like a jet coming down on your head, scream until your eardrums and eyeballs implode from the force of it.

So he does.

Kae shrieks back, but she's so damn average she can't hope to compete with him, not at this—at calling the storm and letting it rush through him until he's not the one in control anymore, tearing out the words he wanted to say and never did, and the words he needed to say but didn't dare, and the words he never realized were lurking in his mind in a thick soup of bitter resentment until they were stirred to the surface by the shock of betrayal. They've fought before, but not like this.

People buzz around him but he brushes and punches them off like bugs. They've always watched, watched every second to see what he and K did next, waiting keenly for the experiment to run its course and taking their scratchy little notes on their clipboards and nodding and frowning—well they're getting a show now, aren't they, a showdown right in the middle of dinner like fireworks and barbed wire and lightning in a blender. They're not important. What's important is letting K know what a gutter-crawling, lying bitch she is, that the only reason she has to cling to a smarter, more interesting person is because she has no talent or personality of her own, that if she hadn't asked for it he would never have even touched her.

_Two weeks left._

"I can't do this anymore," Fallon says.

"Then put it down for a bit," K replies distractedly, chewing on the end of her pen as she skims the page she's reading. They're studying in his room, sitting on the bed with her legs slung over his. "The history quiz coming up. Work on that a bit."

The book in his lap is a few inches thick and dense as a rock, but it's nothing compared to shackling weight of Kae's slender legs.

_Everything_ seems heavy, has ever since he started the pills.

It's not a roller coaster anymore, at least. He doesn't bounce back and forth from doing thirty laps a day for months at a time to spending a month unable to do more to lie down on the floor of the pool for as long as he can hold his breath and stare up through the rippling blue. To tell the truth, Fallon hasn't gone swimming in weeks. He thinks he might seep down to the bottom if he tried and not be able to get back up.

There's just a lot going on. Final spring deadlines. The fluid dynamics term project. The deal he and Jitter are trying to work out with Qarri to renew their rights to listen in on her bugs in the staff offices. Starting to pre-strategize for Hack Acme. F is exhausted.

And this whole thing with Kae on top of it…it's…it's just a lot. She always _needs_. Needs time, needs affection. Needs someone to talk to. Needs support and reassurance. It makes him feel even more exhausted and inadequate. He's terrible at predicting and dealing with her needs, especially the fleeting and ever-changing emotional ones, and though part of him _wants _to be there for her, a growing part of him is just…tired. Tired of trying to read her, tired of being read incorrectly by her, tired of being scrutinized by everyone like they're some sort of human chemistry experiment that is expected to fizzle any second, tired of the expectations and obligations and constant walking on eggshells that this relationship demands.

"That not what I meant," he finally says, and Kae looks up vacantly, the end of the pen still caught at the corner of her mouth and her mind clearly still fixed on ceramic heat retention.

"Eh?" She blinks a few times. "…you gonna crash early?"

"Not that," he says again, struggling to frame his tiredness into words that she'll understand without him having to state it explicitly. She's going to be hurt and upset, and he's dreading it. Dreading letting her down. That's why it's taken him long to say anything at all. Not looking at her, Fallon gestures vaguely between them.

"I don't understand," says Kae, but when he glances at her, her expression says she's beginning to, and she's not happy at all.

And she's hurt and upset, just like he dreaded, and she fights it, and he's too tired to really fight back, just repeats himself over and over until finally she storms out, disgusted and snapping, "_Naozhong_! You were a lot better off without those wormbait pills!"


	30. Kamikaze

30. Kamikaze

The program isn't working.

Concord can see the entire thing in her mind's eye, the thousands of steps and statements and ifs and thens, the swapping of variables from this function to that like marbles ticking through a maze. It's not working though, and figuring out why means starting at the beginning of the maze and testing the path at every single turn.

It's long, tedious, thankless work, and C loves every minute of it. Humming tunelessly to herself in the silence of the media lab, she picks her way methodically through the maze, barely aware of her surroundings.

"—and you shouldn't bring that damn thing in here!"

The slam of the media lab door and an irritated voice snap her out of her almost meditative state. Concord ducks down automatically behind her giant monitor, peering around the edge of it. She hates getting trapped in conversation. Going unnoticed, she's learned, is the best way to avoid it.

And all the better, because it's that evil little wretch Mello, with his just-as-evil little shadow padding along behind him. Concord sighs silently to herself. She's not very good at picking up on other people's feelings, but she hates conflict, and even Concord is not so oblivious not to have picked up on the fact that the Twins are a never-ending dogfight trapped in the bodies of two brilliantly mean little kids. Silently, she watches from the back of the room as Mello flings himself dramatically into a computer chair and starts booting up, still grousing. "What if it pisses on the keyboard, huh?"

"Barton doesn't care if I bring her in here," Near says boredly, transferring the cat to the crook of his arm as he clambers into the seat next to Mello's. "She trained."

"Trained, my ass," Mello mutters. "That rat is a vicious little—"

"I never say she was trained not to _bite_. When you done griping, we perhaps focus on this assignment, _hao ba_?"

Mello says something under his breath that Concord doesn't quite catch, and Near retorts coolly, "You have your pet and I have mine. Mine at least was imposed upon me."

"Is that a hint of bitterness I detect?" Mello sneers. "Wishing you had a real-live friend, instead of imaginary ones and rodents? "

"'Friend' is a generous term. Matt find you entertaining, and you isolated and desperate for attention."

Concord listens, interested despite herself and wishing Dex and Hopper were around. It's becoming apparent that this isn't quite the same as the never-ending sniping over each other's intelligence and abilities. Everyone knows (and has been snickering about) the new academic program, which is obviously designed to get the Twins to work in tandem. If nothing else, it's certainly forcing them to spend a lot of time together. Does this mean things are getting worse between them, or better? Dex would probably be able to read it from this or that wording or the tones of their voices. All her stunted instincts are telling her are that this isn't a conversation they'd be having if they knew anyone was listening, and that Mello hates cats.

Anything she can observe and relate back to D and H might prove to be interesting, though, so she cranes a little farther thinking she might catch a glimpse of their expressions, shifting her keyboard out of her way.

"You're one to—what was that?" Immediately Mello's head whips around, and hot blue eyes catch hers through the rows of computer screens.

Dammit.

"What're you doing, skulking around and spying back there?" the boy demands, jolting up out of his chair.

And as always happens when anyone asks her an unexpected question, Concord's mind goes completely blank.

"Um," she stalls, and behind the cover of the monitor silently keys a quick _!_ to Hopper's email. It's a bit stupid, calling for help for something as trivial as being stuck in the lab with the Twins, but Concord learned long ago she has no talent whatsoever for disengaging herself from such situations with any semblance of grace.

Which Mello also knows, of course. The little bastard.

"Um," he repeats, mimicking her. "Words of true genius, that."

"I'm not _skulking_," the words finally come, lame and belated and far more defensive than she would have liked.

"Right. It just looked that way, seeing as how you were lurking behind your computer there listening in and trying not to make a sound," Mello replies, nodding in mock agreement. "Something any normal person might have done, I'm sure. Except those rare outliers with the guts to handle the presence of human beings with reactions other than sticking their heads in the sand, but what do they have to do with anything?"

In her semi-paralyzed state the exasperating thought occurs to Concord that tonight while unable to sleep she'll probably come up with half a dozen scathing comebacks. Right now she's got nothing though, so she just glares back at Mello, who's sneering in that nasty superior way of his. Near seems content to remain silent, observing and ducking his head a little to conceal his smirk.

It's absolutely galling that one of these two is going to succeed L. Concord grew resigned to the fact that they were the best candidates in terms of their particular mental skills years ago, finally giving up on any personal hope for the succession and pursuing her interest in programming, which she prefers to investigative work anyway. But she still thinks others are better suited personality-wise—Dex and Fallon and Even all would have made perfectly good L's, even Gao if he weren't such a little crook, and the fact that F and E are both gone and the Twins are not despite all their cruel shenanigans sticks her like a thistle in her sock.

Finally, mercifully, the door swings open again for her rescue party. "Concord? You still in here?" Dex calls out, Hopper right behind him. "We were wondering if you…huh." They stop short on seeing the two younger boys. "…Mello. Near," he says, in the sort of tone one might normally employ when stuck talking to the socially awkward cousin everyone avoids at a family reunion.

"The tin man and the scarecrow come to save Dorothy," Mello observes, matching him for condescension. "Convenient to have such attentive lapdogs, isn't it, Concord?"

Concord turns bright red, wishing furiously that she had a clever retort and that she didn't have to depend on Hopper to laugh it off and for Dex to say boredly, "Yes, in the parallel universe where everything revolve around you, that exactly why we lookin' for our friend. In this one, though, people not so focused on _you_. I know that must be difficult for you to understand."

"Strange that in a universe that doesn't revolve around me, you spend so much time prying into our business."

"Well you see, M," Hopper says. "It's hard to look away. I hear train wrecks the same way. You don't want to look but there just something about unstoppable self-destruction that fascinates people."

"Unstoppable self-destruction?" Mello scoffs. "People watching train wrecks at least know not to jump in the way of the crash. You three just like meddling. You can't stand for anything that goes on in this place to be out of your jurisdiction. You have to _intervene._"

"We wouldn't have to intervene if you could act like civilized human beings and not like a pair of mutts sniffing after the same bitch," Dex says coolly.

Mello swells with rage, ears glowing red, and Near interjects smoothly, "Big words for someone who was out of the running years ago."

Hopper frowns, and Concord tenses. This is exactly what she hoped to avoid, not instigate. Dex's jaw is working in that way that means he'd really, really like to hit someone, but is holding himself back. She'd like nothing more than to get up and say _never mind them, let's just go, _but that would be backing down and there's nothing D despises more. Even she and Hopper together will be hard pressed to drag him off now until he feels like he's won.

"Right," Mello snaps, shooting an irritated look at Near but still recovering before Dex, "right, because your intervention always does everybody so much good. Just look how helpful it was for Alternate."

It takes a moment for what he said to sink in. The instant it does is like being struck across the face with the hooked side of a hammer.

Dex's face goes stark white. "What did you say?" he says very, very quietly, but Concord doesn't hear him. Afterward she doesn't remember getting up out of her chair, either, or going down the row to the front of the lab, just how terribly, terribly angry Mello's smirk makes her as she stand over him, barely able to speak for how badly she's shaking and stammering out, "D-Don't you—don't _dare_—don't you say that to him—"

"Aw, so it does talk," Mello says, unthreatened. Concord has never hit anyone before, but she's dizzy with fury, and she wants to so badly it hurts.

Instead she gathers the hurt, uses it to force out, "You don't know what you talking about, Mello. You—you don't know a damn thing about it—"

"Concord," D says, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at the weight of his hand on her shoulder, and is distantly annoyed to realize her eyes are welling up with how angry she is that Mello would even think of bringing up A and B and talking like that to Dex, after everything—after—she can practically hear Backup laughing, the memory is so sharp, and the way D staggered, running after the monster with his nightshirt soaked with blood—

"I know a lot more than you think," Mello says, enjoying the effect his words have on the usually silent programmer. "Did you know he became a serial killer, after running away? Too bad nobody stopped him. One of them was a little girl, I hear. He crushed her eyes after—"

It's a good thing that Hopper is stronger than both of them and Mello has at least the sense to back away, or it's entirely plausible that D and C may have torn him in half between them before H's insistent, "Guys—he just talking scrap—_guys_—" broke through to them.

Mello, flushing a little for having stepped back at all, regains his cocky smirk almost instantly. "So you didn't know," he says. "I hadn't thought so. Well, now you do. Something to think over."

"Perhaps you ought to go," Near adds, as Dex tenses under Hopper's restraining hand again. "Before you damage your reputation for imperturbability further." A complacent almost-smile touches the corners of his mouth. "We _were_ working before your…interruption."

"Like it matter," Dex snaps, a touch of bitterness creeping through, "Work or don't work, everybody know one'a you gonna be L and it _won't_ be because you deserve it, you just happen to be the Warden's favorite little tools."

"That's nice, Dex. I always thought you thought such petty expressions of jealousy were beneath you," Mello says softly, eyes glittering with malice.

"It doesn't matter, D," Concord murmurs, and suddenly she is calm again. Because Dex is right. He's not going to be L, and neither are she nor Hopper, and something has just occurred to her: after the House, none of this is going to matter—not L or the Twins or the Warden or any of it. There are better things to think about, more important things to plan for. They're getting older. She's beginning to realize what she has to do. It's time to go, and though she may do anything on the way out that she can to keep Mello from ever having L's power, it's no longer their battle. D's fist loosens when she touches it, and she takes his hand. "Let's go."

"Running away with your tail 'tween your legs?" Mello sneers.

"You're nothing but trash, Mello," Concord tells him quietly. For a split second there's a flash of something in his cruel blue eyes, and she knows with uncharacteristic perception that she's actually hit a weak spot, though she has no idea what it is and probably never will.

And then they go.


	31. Debt

31. Debt

_Fwump!_

Wiley finds herself yet again flat on her back on the mat, gasping to reclaim her breath and staring at the paneled ceiling. By the time this term is over she'll have every centimeter of it memorized.

Xie leans over her, heart-shaped face tilted in not-quite-concern. "Y'ok, Dubs?"

The twit hasn't even broken a sweat.

"'Mind me again why I sign to this _blakabaka_," Wiley groans.

"For fun an' exa-size," X deadpans.

It's a purely rhetorical question. Bull suggested Xie try learning a martial art, to acclimate herself to bodily contact and perhaps gain a little confidence from being able to physically defend herself if needed. Determined to overcome her own fears, Xie agreed, but special measures still needed to be taken. The _sensei_ is a woman, and X refuses to practice sparring with a boy. Few students were interested in learning judo at all; Over and Jordan were the only ones who signed up. Well, so, Xie needed a judo partner. And Wiley owed her a big favor, because she would never have gotten through Reading Chinese for Science Research last term without her.

So here she is. On the floor. Again. For someone who almost cried with dread a last week when told to step onto the mat and attempt a grapple, Xie is getting painfully good at throwing.

"Up," comes _sensei_ Hayato's brusque voice. "Up, up!"

Suppressing a groan, Wiley drags her sorry bum up off the ground and twitches her _gi _back into place. How does everyone else's stay so neat? Over and Jordan and Xie all seem to have this whole judo thing down pat, their movements sharp and disciplined and purposeful, while Wiley is a gangly scramble of limbs that all want to go in different directions.

Hayato more or less tells her exactly this, though in sterner and more technical terms. The tiny _sensei_ dresses her down for her terrible form, slapping her hand down when W automatically raises it to chew on a snagged fingernail. After a lot of resigned nodding and agreeing and assuring Hayato of her intent to work harder, she's directed to try again.

_Fwump!_

Ping pong. Why couldn't Xie need her to help her learn to play ping pong? Wiley _rocks _at ping pong, and at darts and archery and various other activities that do not involve being slammed around like a rag doll by a girl who she's got a good handspan in height on. But no, of all the bloody things—

On the other side of the room, Jordan manages to throw Over to the mat. _Oh my God. Even the narcoleptic kid is kicking my bum, _Wiley thinks, silently cursing Xie, Reading Chinese for Science Research, Hayato, and her own lanky limbs indiscriminately.

Somehow she manages to get through the wretched class with most of her body parts more or less attached and where they belong. Aching all over, she dodges out the moment Hayato is done lecturing them and escapes to the sanctuary of her room.

Crash and Echo are already there, naturally; they've cleared a space for themselves on her floor and appear to be struggling through the sociology notes that Faris and Vince gave them in exchange for their old physics notes.

"'Ow was the joo-doo?" Crash asks as Wiley hobbles into her room, closing the door behind her, just barely remembering that she's not supposed to open and shut it again four times as Echo likes. Bull's asked them to help with their friend's tuning by not encouraging her compulsions, and they forget sometimes out of sheer habit but they're getting better. E looks up with a smile that quirks sympathetically when she sees the look on W's face.

"Blow like Krakatoa," W groans, stepping over Echo's sprawled-out form and flopping face-first onto her bed.

"What, you not the joo-doo master yet, Dub? What X got you doin', 'oldin' 'er water bottle and watchin'?" Crash laughs, yelping then laughing harder when Wiley fumbles on the bedside table for one of her hacky sacks throws it at her friend with unerring aim.

"Maybe get better with practice," Echo says. "Only been what, two weeks?"

"Two more week'a dis and I be dead anyhow," Wiley grumbles self-pityingly into her mattress.

"Hnn, she not lettin' you off you favor that easy." Flipping over Vince's notes and scowling at a list of definitions, Echo frowns. "Any of this make sense to you? He already knew alla this crap, barely explain a thing."

"Not a speck," C grumbles. "F's short'and look almost like Chinese to me."

"Shoulda asked to see the notes before trading," Echo says, clicking her pen in annoyance. _One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four._

"Get Xie to help you with it," suggests Wiley, rolling over to peer down at the notes. "Then _you_ owe her and _you _can learn judo."

"Nuh-_uh_, no thanks," says E, and C giggles madly. "We leave that one to you, oh joo-doo mast-ah."

Not surprising, of course. It's a House full of supernerds and geeks. They're here for their brains, not their physical prowess. Raina has to almost physically drag some of the students out for mandatory outside fitness play.

"I hate you both," W says matter-of-factly, then sighs, catching her finger at the corner of her mouth and biting the nail morosely. "X tryin'a kill me and you just laugh. Some friends."

"Pff. Just think, some day we be accosted by baddies and you gonna fight them off," says Echo.

"Blind-folded with you 'ands be'ind you back," Crash agrees. "They won't know what comin'."

"I suppose there _some_ percent chance that I maybe fall on them and accidentally break they necks," Wiley sighs.

"Oh, stop that. 'Ere." Automatically W's hand snaps up to catch the juggling ball that C tosses up at her before it hits her in the face. Rooting through the piles of junk on the floor and under the bed, Echo and Crash find five more between them and chuck them up as well. "And while you jugglin' think about sociology, not the hoodoo-joodoo. Not much better for you mood but at least we might be ready for this _blakaba_ test."

It's nice to be in control of something after feeling so helplessly out of control for an hour, Wiley muses, both of her own movement and of part of her environment, and decides for about the forty-sixth time that she hates judo and is ready for this term to be over.


	32. Slide

32. Slide

Most of the time when Jordan falls asleep in class Faris just lets it slide. The professors all know he can't help it, they've started taking video recordings of class so he can catch up later, and he always wakes up again after ten minutes anyway. But it's a special guest lecture today and F knows Jordan has been aggressively researching the man's work and is determined to confront his opinion of postmodernist literature, which J totally opposes. He would cut out his own tongue rather than miss the opportunity to tell this guy he's wrong. So as unobtrusively as he can, Faris stomps down on his friend's foot with his heel.

Immediately J's head snaps up, hand shooting straight at the ceiling.

"Right but how did you address the Cranston critiques published in 2006?" he blurts out, not opening his eyes until halfway through the question.

Caught mid-sentence, the speaker pauses, blinks rapidly, and clears his throat. "Ah, well, I will get to that," he says in a flustered sort of way. "As I was saying..."

Jordan looks just as startled as the literature professor, shaking his head a little to wake himself up and pinching his arms, hard.

They end up having to do this twice more throughout the course of the presentation (it thoroughly discombobulates the poor professor when his loudest critic's head falls to his desk with a loud _crack _in the middle of one of his own arguments). Lately Verity has been making him take naps after every meal, so he's been much better at staying awake through class, but this special presentation was scheduled for right after lunch so it's pretty inevitable.

"That was fun! Wannit fun? I thought it was fun," Jordan half-says, half-shouts as he tramps up the stairs and Faris shuffles along behind him.

F supposes it was fun. It was certainly _funny_, watching the discourse between his friend, who has no concept of vocal volume, and the relatively shy and anxious professor who clearly felt uncertain about lecturing to kids.

"Haha, did you see he face? He don' like those questions, no," Jordan blares. The more pleased he is the harder he stomps, so his small feet sound like elephant feet on the wooden stairs. "Wannit great? Hey, we got an hour still b'fore class. What you wanna do now?"

Risk! Faris thinks immediately, perking slightly, he wants to play Risk. He's been watching Dex and Hopper and Gao and Jitter play together for ages but they don't want to play with the younger kids and he just finally convinced Vince and Jordan to try it for the first time last week.

"Ugh, you prolly wanna play Risk again, _da_?" Jordan groans, and for good reason. F didn't learn nothing from watching the Crusties play. He has trounced his friends every time thus far. If they'd practice more though he's sure they'd get better and it would be a more fun and challenging game for all of them.

"We play Risk _every day_ last three day. Don' you ever wanna do somethin' different?" J says (speaking up presumably for the benefit of people who might be listening to their conversation from the Continent), then interrupts himself with a monstrous yawn.

"Tired," Faris observes.

"I swear, F, you worse than Ma Verity, alla time naggin' me to take you nap, take you nap. I'm not—tiii_iiired_," he argues, yawning again.

There's a sudden squeal and stifled laughter from around the corner up ahead, and then Geia zips by in front of them, skidding across the hardwood floor on her socks. Zane runs by shortly after, pulling one end of his measuring tape.

"Four-point-six-fourmeters," comes his voice from around the other corner, and Geia crows with triumph.

"Ha, take that, Nina!"

Coming up on the hallway, Faris can see that a group of students have set up a small contest space. There's a short line of kids in socks waiting impatiently behind a stripe of yellow tape on the floor at one end, a red stripe somewhat closer, and a dispersed series of smaller pieces of tape scattered on the other end of the hall with letters and distances written on them. Zane runs back to the line with the tape measure, grinning at J and F as he passes.

"Wanna play?" Hunter calls to them from where he's sitting in his doorway. Apparently he has taken on the task of marking people's stopping points; he has a roll of yellow tape on one arm and a piece of it on every finger.

"Looks like fun! How 'bout this, F, how 'bout it? Still wanna play Risk or you think we can show these fishies how to shift it?"

It does look pretty fun, Faris supposes. He'd rather play Risk, of course, but then there's the fact that they can play Risk almost any time, but getting a large group together like this is harder; most of the House kids are pretty introverted and tend to stick to themselves or in groups of two or three unless prodded. And anyway, judging by the tape marks he thinks they have a pretty good chance of doing well.

He shrugs.

"Alrighty then, step aside, step aside!" Jordan says, galloping over to the line.

"'ey now, s'not you turn, gotta go in order," Aris snaps, pointing to Nina, Echo, and Una, in line behind her.

"Wha-hey, an' how many times you gone already? Not even gonna let us catch up?" J flings a dramatic hand at the scatter of tape pieces down the hall.

Una rolls her eyes a little, and Faris has to agree. The two of them exchange a wry look behind their friends' backs.

"Everyone but Aris gone twice," Zane interjects, and Hunter adds from down the hall, "And Aris winning."

"Oh 'zat so! Well then A! Gotta go twice b'fore you can beat me, izzat it?" Jordan says, bouncing on his toes and grinning cheekily.

Her dark eyes narrow to slits as he finishes off this challenge with a loud yawn.

"_Hao a_," she says shortly, stepping back and gesturing curtly. "Start at yellow. Red you gotta start sliding, no later."

Over the course of this exchange Faris has managed to sidle over to stand at the back of the line next to Una.

"Tape onna floor," he comments under his breath.

He's all too keenly aware that Ma Marta and the maintenance staff are in high dudgeon lately. Thanks to Paran, Rom, and Over's latest unsolicited House improvement project, all of the common room windows have to be resealed. Stripping the floor varnish with tape is unlikely to improve their mood.

"Devon's unstick tape," Una replies, and he nods in understanding. The older boy had shown off the bizarre reusable 'unsticky' adhesive at the inHouse science fair last summer; someone must have paid through the nose to get a whole roll of the stuff off him.

"Ok ok then, ready for me?" Jordan is saying, clapping his hands and bracing his feet at the yellow line.

"Ready," says H, giving him a thumbs up.

"Better make it good," Aris grumbles.

"Oh don't woooo_ooorrrr_ry," J says, stifling another yawn. "Will do."

And at first it looks like he will. Sprinting to the red tape, he starts skidding over the polished floor, holding his arms out as though he's on a surfboard. F notices his shoulders drooping at the same time that Hunter's expression changes to one of alarm. Like a marionette with its strings cut, Jordan goes down.

The impact wakes him up as abruptly as he fell asleep, and after a brief moment of looking around in bewilderment, he looks down at his feet and shouts out, "Did I win?"

True to House custom, H rolls with it; if J's going to pretend nothing happened, so will everyone else. Immediately they all fall back, discarding their concern. He slaps down a piece of tape right where Jordan fell and as Zane is running out the measuring tape replies, "Nope, sorry. Aris mashed you."

Faris shakes his head slightly, hiding his amused smile as Jordan bemoans his low score and the girls laugh. His friend should have taken that nap after all.

On the bright side, now he has a chance to beat A's score first. He knows he can win at Risk but it can't hurt to branch out a little.


	33. Sparks

**AN: Holy buckets, guys, I'm so happy to finally be posting this chapter. I wrote it way back in April, have been trying to get it just right ever since, and if I to look at it one more day I'm going to scream. Really hope you like this one. :)  
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33. Sparks

The whole world is falling apart.

That's nothing new. Ever larger empires have collapsed, wars grown ever greater in their spheres of destruction, and there are enough nukes on the planet that it's entirely plausible that humans will annihilate themselves and the Earth along with them, a biological negative feedback system hurtling ever faster toward pointless mass suicide. Any day a supervirus could decimate the population, or the large hadron collider could suck them all into a black hole and wipe them all out in a matter of nanoseconds, or—well, so on. The point is, every second that something terrible isn't happening is only delaying the inevitable, in Devon's opinion.

Things are breaking down more visibly than usual, however—in the House, the world, wherever. Devon always steels himself for the worst so he _really _hates having even his most gloomy expectations surpassed. But there it is: L and Mr. W killed by Kira without even exposing the killer, the Twins splitting (ok, _that_ was expected), Kira growing stronger month by month and now even year by year, so that the now foundationless House feels increasingly like a broken boulder in a sea of reeds, all swaying to bow to Kira's whim.

It's times like this that he thinks his hypocritical slut of a mother might actually have been right about one thing: there _must _be a god, after all. But a sandcastle god, who takes delight in building up the world only to smash it back into a pile of worthless sand. Mere statistics can't account for this crap.

Life as they know it is almost certainly going to end at any moment, Devon thinks one morning while staring sleeplessly at his ceiling. If he doesn't knuckle down and get certain things done soon—today, right _now_—he might never get a chance.

So when he's done shaving the sparse, irritating down that has started stubbling his cheeks and jaw and has filed his nails and tweezed his brows and his hair is as close to right as it's ever going to get, he slips down the hall to Crash's door and knocks until she opens it.

This ridiculous game has been going on long enough. It's about time they have a serious conversation, for once, and come to a consensus over where they stand.

"_You,_" she groans—at least, that's what he interprets the incoherent grumble to mean. The sun's not even up yet so Devon didn't expect Crash to be awake, but of course, no one else is either, and that's the whole point. He recognizes her T-shirt as the same one she wore the day before. Probably slaved over her chemical equations long into the night, until even several shots of caffeine couldn't keep her conscious, waking sometime in the small hours of the morning just long enough to pitch headlong into bed. Most of her hair is smushed weirdly to one side, the imprint of her pillowcase wrinkles stand out red on one cheek, and her wide mouth is turned down in a wide scowl. "What. Why. What _time _is it? You needa borrow an 'air dryer or some girly thing?"

"Like you know what a hair dryer even look like. Oxy torches don' make the best styling tool," D shoots back. "Though that mixup explain why _you _always look such a disaster."

"Right-o," C mumbles, slumping against the doorway and closing her eyes and looking like she could easily doze off standing that way. "I still ugly and you still a girl. We done and I can sleep or what?"

"Sun comin' up soon. I goin' for a walk 'round the yard. Come with me."

That wakes her up.

"What, like…." she probes warily, and he nods once.

She's always so easy to read when she's caught off guard, in those fleeting moments before she grins and laughs him off. Crash isn't laughing now. D watches her face, entranced as though by a particularly gripping novel as the gears turn lightning-fast behind her bleary eyes: surprise, followed by suspicion, then horrified embarrassment as it occurs to her someone might be listening—eyes flicking down the hall first one way then the other—then something that is much more difficult to read, the guarded attention of a predator that finds itself cornered by an equal in strength.

With a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder she more or less orders him into the room, snicking the door shut behind him.

The place ought to be caution-taped. Lecturing Crash about the deadly hazards of her own room has never accomplished anything but to make her laugh, though, so he doesn't bother anymore. Every flat surface is piled precariously with glassware and pyrotechnic equipment and carefully sealed containers of toxic materials, undoubtedly "borrowed" from the chem lab. Matchbooks and coils of fuse are scattered everywhere along with clothing, dirty mugs, books, and crumpled papers, and just about everything in the room has at least one scorch mark on it. The smells of gunpowder, burnt sugar, and coffee hang cloying as incense.

Devon only has a few seconds to frown on the chaos before C is turning on him, whispering furiously.

"Suppose someone see us, eh, what _then_?"

"Then they see us," he retorts quietly. "Why you care?"

"What_, _like you don't, _you _the one so 'ung up on appearances! There'd be alla kinda rumors—"

"So what?" He's quite tall and has almost perfected the art of looming over those he wants to intimidate, and they're standing almost uncomfortably close—no, Devon decides, it _is _uncomfortable and making him a little claustrophobic—but she's not scared a bit, at least not that he might raise a hand against her. Hell, she fell off a building once just to prove to him she wasn't afraid of getting hurt…physically. Crash just glares right back up at him with her arms folded tightly and fingers twitching for a match to strike.

It's lucky for him that they met as children here as, in a place where women go unveiled, and not as adults where he grew up, because Devon is sure that if all he had to focus on was those _I-dare-you_ eyes and the conjurings of his own imagination he'd have been wrapped hopelessly around her little finger years ago.

And it makes his insides curl with dark satisfaction and pride, thinking about how much his tasteless mother would have thoroughly despised Crash. What a delicious revenge it would have been to bring her home and introduce her as his intended and see the look on that slut's face… a well-earned payback for those years before the House but after he learned from the other boys playing in the streets what the words _whore _and _bastard _actually meant, the shame of knowing that the beautiful mother he had always been so proud of was a disgrace, looked down on by the entire neighborhood. Crash is not beautiful and never will be and will never _need _to be, because she's unrepentantly stubborn and brilliant and more than capable of blasting out a way for herself on sheer brains and overwhelming force of personality and perhaps a little C4.

Besides, Devon is more than beautiful enough for the both of them.

"Look," he says, "_you_ the one always sayin' everything just games."

"Some games shouldn't be played. Maybe you needa talk to Fallon and Kae. Oh wait, you can't, cuz they gone," she snaps.

"So what. So we seen together like that, rumors go 'round, one of us decide it a bad idea and turn on each other and it all go bad and we go down in flame, at least we would have had—"

_Smack!_

His cheek smarts madly and Devon is not pleased in the slightest to think of the irregular red mark that might be visible later, but he's won the point, and that's worth it.

"Don't you _dare, _Devon," Crash hisses, looking as though she's the one who was slapped. "Don't you _dare _sabotage us like that—"

"Us?" D interrupts, raising his brows, and savoring the way his gut tingles warmly. "What _us_? Unless I miss a memo, there nothing to sabotage. Yet."

Crash glares, not replying, so he goes on, "You just scared of anything you actually give a damn about goin' wrong."

"And you scared'a anything you actually give a damn 'bout goin' _right_!"

She's _so _upset, angrier than D even dreamed he could push her to be, and _his_ fists and jaw have clenched automatically against her dead-on accusation even though he instigated this whole thing, and for the first time he believes instead of just wishing, _maybe they actually _could_ be something._ Something more than pulling pigtails and dropping ice cubes down the backs of each others' shirts and calling names and showing off and knocking each other down on the pitch. Devon knows what he wants, and he's certain now he knows what Crash wants. If she didn't care she'd be laughing in his face, not glowering at the mere suggestion that they'd fail.

"Come on," he says again. He's itching to take her hand and—he's not exactly sure, just hold it or draw her closer or even dare to kiss it—but he hasn't held someone's hand since he was five and he's certainly never kissed anyone and she's still got her arms crossed tightly over her chest anyway, and that might just be laying too many cards on the table for this preliminary stage of the game. "Hardly anyone awake. We can turn around the yard, _da_?"

For a brief moment, Crash looks as though she wants desperately to say yes. Then,

"Not now. Not 'ere, in the 'Ouse. Later."

"There not gonna be a later."

"Yes," Crash says fiercely, jabbing him hard in the chest with one finger. "There _will _be."

She's so determined that D almost thinks she might be right. He _wants_ her to prove him wrong.

Well, he thinks a minute later, brooding in his window and watching the horizon lighten, that went a lot better than he expected, or even hoped. Side effect of always assuming the worst. Metallic, echoing bangs sound from next door, where Crash is apparently taking out her frustration on some inanimate object and hammering the ever-living hell out of it instead of going back to sleep. It's the most satisfying sound he's ever heard.

Devon lights himself a much-needed cigarette. Yeah. A _lot_ better than he ever would have predicted.


	34. Hunger

**AN: This is the first time I've written L so hopefully it's not awful, lol. A couple things-**

**-I think I've sort of hammered out where all everything is going, and I'm about 96% sure there will be 60 chapters total.  
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**-The character letter banners over on dA are up to Icarus now. :)  
**

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34. Hunger

L has a great deal of respect and affection for Mr. Wammy. Since the time the old inventor first took an interest in the street child who in a few bare moments offhandedly solved the entire crossword on the back of the paper he was reading, Mr. Wammy has been his caretaker and supporter, encouraging his intellectual pursuits and acting almost in the capacity of a father, though L can't recall ever having one of those.

That same mentor is the only thing that keeps him connected to the House where he lived out that dreamlike transitional period of his life, between those barely remembered years of concrete glittering with used needles and broken glass and the ever-clutching claws of cold and hunger, and what his life is now—new-scented hotel rooms and cakes and coffee and computer screens.

L prefers to keep his mind trained on his cases rather than linger over the past. And they are certainly more than a mere distraction. Nothing captivates L like a good puzzle, and it is his drive to outsmart any challenger that comes along, not something as paltry as memories of a troubled childhood, which drives him to bury himself in what others might call work, occupying every waking thought (which is almost every thought, since he rarely sleeps) with interviews and forensic evidence, times and places and dates and motives and methods. And the Kira case—well, it's the best puzzle yet.

The House is different now from what it was when he lived there. Back then it was just an orphanage. A nice one, but an orphanage nonetheless. Now it's an institution in the business of churning out hopeful and occasionally deranged replacements for him. Even when he was a child himself, L disliked other children, and now that he's physically grown (though still fairly childish), he hasn't gained any affection for them. On top of that, having to track down that clingy, sycophantic one that got away and mutilated those people in LA a couple summers ago has somewhat biased him against the House children in particular.

L would never tell Mr. Wammy, who is enamored of the idea the House, that he finds it mildly unsettling that his first name (which, admittedly, is a bit unusual, but still _his _name) has been recast as a title. He also finds it more than a little disturbing that children not so very many years younger than himself are striving to be the next "L," though objectively he has the ego to think it a reasonable idea. But still, though his fame has put him in something of a risky situation, should his identity ever be discovered (those who catch criminals tend to find themselves unpopular in the criminal world, after all), and admittedly his current case is quite risky, and of course people die of all sorts of things every day, _still,_ L thinks, he's healthy and he's smart enough to be cautious. It's not as though he's about to simply fall over dead any minute now.

The House in Winchester is just an all-around unsettling and irritating place to be stuck at, from L's standpoint, especially right now, when he's itching to really get going on this unusual case. And so it's his love for Mr. Wammy and nothing else that keeps him uncharacteristically tactful when the old man suggests they check in at the House instead of heading straight for Japan.

The one consolation is that Constance is still around, and her pastry skills are as good as ever. She's sent up a heaping tray of petits fours, decorated with swirls and tiny rosettes, in a bouquet of delicious flavors. Unfortunately, even Cookie's to-die-for strawberry cake can't quite make him ignore the unwelcome visitor peeping through his cracked-open door.

He can hear the child breathing, though they're trying very hard to be quiet. It's extremely annoying. He doesn't want to speak to any of the students, but he doesn't like that they're sitting there just watching, either. It reminds him just a bit of B's half-worshipping, half-mocking attention, though he tells himself that curiosity is natural for children that age.

"I know that you are there."

Unabashed at being discovered, the student pushes the door open farther, standing boldly in the doorway. "You're L. The first one. Aren't you."

It's not a question. He answers anyway.

"And you are Mello."

L can see that, now, in the light of the hallway, the golden-blond hair in its distinctive page-boy cut. This was one of the two that stuck out to him, that hung back at the edge of the webcam's focus and observed the interview much as a pair of wolves might observe the movement of a flock of sheep from the treeline, waiting for an opportunity to pick off a straggler.

Reading emotions is not exactly one of his strong suits, but judging on how the boy straightens a little, leaning a little from the light of the hallway and into the darkness of L's almost completely unfurnished room, he seems emboldened, even a little awed that L knows his name. Crouched on the floor behind his computer, L debates whether his obligation to Watari quite extends to not telling this child to go away so he can work on his case, which is much more interesting than him.

"You must be busy," Mello says, sounding quite as though he's hoping for an invitation into the room.

"Yes. Very," L replies shortly.

The boy's voice is definitely a little awed now, hushed and eager. "With the Kira case."

"That is correct."

"I've been following it too," Mello blurts, when L turns dismissively back to his computer.

L looks up sharply at that. This is _his _case, his puzzle. Mello seems to sense his annoyance immediately, though, and draws back slightly. "You know. Watching on the news. People are saying some pretty crazy things. You're going to catch him soon though, aren't you."

"I expect my investigation will bring the killer to light soon, yes."

What with the low camera resolution during the long-distance interview, it was difficult for L to put a finger on what exactly it was about Mello and Near that both repelled and impressed him. Now, in person, it is clear just what that burning expression is.

Hunger.

He can see it in the way those intense blue eyes follow his hand to the platter of cakes and back, the way Mello simultaneously hangs back self-consciously, but stares as though he couldn't tear his gaze away if he tried. L finds himself making the same mental analogy again of a half-starved wolf staring at a fat sheep through a fence. Like Beyond, and yet not—B hid his hunger for power beneath layer upon cloying layer of sniveling and pretense and sugar-coated poison. L gets the distinct impression that M would be hard-pressed to ever hide his true thoughts and emotions.

Still, the LA case was not so very long ago, and though he'd far rather be puzzling over Kira and his methods, if he can act now to head off potential problems in the future….

"What is it, L?" Mello asks brazenly, and L's mind is made up. Perhaps a little cautionary tale is in order.

"You remind me of a former student here," the investigator says, plucking up another strawberry petit four then pausing. "Would you like a cake?"

The struggle is clear on Mello's thin face as he attempts to weigh the situation—questioning what L might mean with that loaded statement (it certainly doesn't come across as positive, given the assorted fates of all of the House students who could be described as 'former'), and what the correct answer to his question might be—if there even _is_ a correct answer. "No, thank you."

Good, more for him. "Fine then. Close the door," says L. Popping the cake into his mouth he continues indistinctly, "Sit down. Over there." He gestures to the far corner.

Hesitating for an instant, the boy does so, his gaze growing wary.

"I am going to tell you about a case I investigated recently," the young man informs him. "Then I want you to go away. Do you understand?"

Those blazing blue eyes widen in the dark. "Yes, sir."

"Good." He chooses another cake, picking off the spun-sugar rose on top and crunching on it. Delicious. "When I first received reports of the serial killings, they were referred to by the media as the Wara Ningyo murders…."


	35. Toad

**AN/ETA: Oops, had to reupload with some minor changes. I forgot that Mello would have been gone after Watari's death. Getting too entangled in my own plot...sorry about that.**

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35. Toad

An instant after Nina sleepily reaches for her favorite stuffed animal and discovers what Paolo has done to Mr. Frogface, her hysterical shriek shatters the relative peace of the early Sunday morning.

"_MARTAAAA!"_

Minutes later, having deposited a thoroughly traumatized Nina into an aide's soothing arms and hauled Paolo to her office, the matron drops the toy to her desk in front of him with a sickening _squelch_ and demands in a voice that calls to mind the restrained creaking of a dam that is just at its breaking point, "And just _vat_ is _zis_?"

"Eh…eheh…a frog?" the little boy offers up along with a sheepish gap-toothed smile.

"Vhy did you do zis?"

"Eh well you know…issa frog, yeah? And frogs got insides. I made it better."

To be honest, Paolo is not entirely certain what the problem is. It's pretty clear that the matron is infuriated, but why? He figures the reason that Nina has so many toy animals is because she wants a real one. She says things that aren't very nice sometimes but she always apologizes after and last week she helped him with his English homework so he thought he should do something nice for her too.

It must be that the insides he got from the bio lab weren't really frog insides. Mr. Frogface is much bigger than most frogs, so he ended up deciding to sacrifice genetic realism for proportional realism and used the insides of a largish raccoon that the intermediate biology class was supposed to dissect later that week.

"I'm sorry 'bout the raccoon," he says, downcast. "But the frogs were little."

She graces him with a long, barely-restrained lecture about respecting the belongings of others, and he is given to know that Nina does not see his alteration of her favorite toy as anything remotely approaching an improvement—sees it as hopelessly ruined, even. This terrible revelation weighs far more heavily on him than Marta's sentence of two weeks on pot-scrubbing and garden-weeding duty.

His attitude changes somewhat that evening, when instead of getting his homework over with or playing video games with Solar or Train he finds himself half-soaked in hot soapy water, washing off what must be every spoon the House has ever owned. They had treacle tart today, so the silverware is especially sticky and stubborn. Nina yelled at him, calling him a perverted little toad and not seeming sorry at all, as she usually is when she accidentally blurts out things she doesn't mean to say out loud, and hasn't talked to or looked at him since. In fact, hardly anyone has talked to him today.

The few encounters he _has_ had were all uncomfortable and unpleasant. First the confrontation with Karter and Lazlo and Geia, who cornered him as he was coming out of the bathroom and made oblique threats to the effect that they'll sabotage every lab he ever does for the rest of his life if he so much as looks at their friend again. Then Qarri with more of the same—she doesn't even hang out with Nina, she just sticks up for her because with her uncontrollable, unfiltered truth-telling, N is pretty much the Anti-Isabel. Probably worst was Rom and Over joining him at lunch and crowing over what a fantastic prank he pulled. They've never liked Nina much, not since she commented that far from being the next L, their friend Paran would probably be the next L's first easy case. He doesn't want the approval of people like that, and he thought he saw Geia shoot him a nasty look when they were clapping him on the back in congratulations.

Nina _ought_ to have liked it, he thinks resentfully as Constance picks through the forks and spoons he's been drying and tosses half of them back in the sink on the grounds that they still have treacle on them. It was a lot of work, getting all the parts out of the raccoon without destroying them, then arranging them all just right, and sewing her stupid toy closed again! He's never sewn before, he pricked his fingers a dozen times doing that! And it _was_ better, she just didn't get it. For whatever reason. Stupid Nina and her stupid friends. Just because they're older—just who do they think they are, talking down on him like that? He's so tired of being so close to the end of the alphabet, and the second alphabet at that. The Warden needs to get in and find more fishies so he doesn't have to be one of the littlest anymore. When Mr. W was alive—

Well, he's not. So there's no point in going there.

Paolo sighs, dropping his elbows onto the edge of the sink (he has to stand on a stool to reach) and pokes at the bubbles morosely. Maybe if he unfixes Mr. Frogface Nina will admit that she's sorry for what she said, and start talking to him again, and tell her mean friends to leave him alone. But they'll be keeping a double sharp eye on him now, Paolo doubts he'd be able to get his hands on the toy. Which has probably been thrown away by now anyway.

One of Cookie's assistants eventually takes pity on him and helps him dry the last of the forks, finally setting him free from punishment for the night. Sort of. Now he's got a pile of English homework to do, and only a couple hours until curfew, and no Nina to help him.

Usually he likes to do his studying in the common room, where there's often something going on and people hanging around, but that's also where Karter and Lazlo will be this time of the evening, and he doesn't dare.

And Solar is no help at all tonight. He knocks at her door for several minutes with no answer, before going to check his Housemail and discovering she sent him a message earlier saying she was going to be working on her latest story, which means she's probably holed up in the attic or a tree or some other weird place like that with her little green notebook and will stay there until she falls asleep and is found by an aide.

There are too many distractions in his room, too many books and magazines and posters, ranging from prints of the Vesalius woodcuts to a collection of National Geographic posters of things like two-headed lizards and giant tarantulas. Too many things to look at that are not remotely related to but are much more interesting than his English homework.

Between Nina and her friends and Mr. Frogface and Mr. W and Solar and dishes and English homework he's managed by this point to work himself down into a pretty sorry state. He's so depressed he doesn't even notice Kendall shuffling down the hall in her dinosaur slippers until he runs right into her.

"Whoah there, kiddo," the plump old lady laughs, catching him, then steadying him back on his feet. "And where are you headed off to with that big ol' frown?"

"The libr'y," P says miserably, hugging his book to his chest and looking down at her slippers. They usually make him smile, with their buggy yellow eyes and big fuzzy teeth, but right now they're just reminding him of Mr. Frogface.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's not doing so great, and Kendall didn't come to be the reference librarian at the House for sitting around looking pretty. She's been up since five in the morning and it's been a long day; she recognizes the textbook Paolo is carrying as the one used a particularly tough professor who just assigned an extremely difficult research paper that many of the kids have been struggling with. That's why she's here and not in bed right now; Kendall was supposed to have some time off to rest a few hours ago, but she was helping first Ochre then Faris and then Matt troll through various archives and repositories looking for sources. Paolo has little to no patience for academic reading, she knows; the kid is going to end up in tears within fifteen minutes of trying to get it done on his own. And when she left just now, Addison was chin-deep in practice questions trying to help Sember get ready for his tests to start applying to medical schools.

Plus, she's heard all about the Mr. Frogface fiasco from several of the students now, and though she'll be the first to admit Paolo is a peculiar little duckling…well, they all have their favorites, even though they're supposed to treat the children equally. Roger blatantly pulls strings for Mello and Near, Addison moped for weeks when Hopper and Dex graduated and left him with no one to debate politics with, and Hopkins has yet to ever give Paran the infamous stink-eye despite how many times that scamp has damaged House property. Kendall has a bit of a soft spot for this scrawny oddball, who reminds her rather of herself when she was his age. She felt badly about Nina's toy, but she still couldn't help but chuckle a little when she heard the story.

"I was just on my way back," she lies cheerfully, scooping his little hand into her ring-bedecked one. "Working on Professor Dylerman's paper?"

Paolo nods unhappily, trotting along beside her as she waddles right on back to the library.

"You know, if you haven't picked a topic book yet, there's one I think you would like," Kendall tells P, grinning down at him confidentially. "It's about a scientist called Dr. Moreau, and his experiments in vivisection."

"A scientist?" he asks a little dazedly, momentarily distracted from stuffed animals and angry students.

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**AN: The book Kendall is referring to is, of course, _The Island of Dr. Moreau _by H. G. Wells.**

**The Vesalius woodcuts also not of my own invention-they're some of the earliest anatomically correct medical illustrations, from the book _De humani corporis fabrica_,**** and are creepy as hell.  
**

**I'm up to Kae over on dA with the Letter Banner series, if you're interested. Link to my dA profile is on my author profile.  
**


	36. Ears

**AN: Sorry it's taking me so long to update this. I've sort of hit this block of chapters about characters that I haven't spent as much time developing, plus work is taking over and I just recently watched Avatar: the Last Airbender, and have been cooking up some ideas for that fandom. anywoo, on to the story.**

**

* * *

**36. Ears

"This gonna be great," Rom whispers eagerly, propping himself up on his elbows and addressing Over across Paran's back.

"Way better than the vents," Over agrees.

Their soft voices are barely louder than the faint, tinny sound of the headphones hanging round O's neck, but they're already driving P crazy. Gritting his teeth, he shifts his grip on the wrench and tries to get a better angle on the pipe he's adjusting. Two years ago they all fit fine, but now Paran is almost fourteen and Rom and Over are just two years younger, and the cupboard under the old unused utility room sink has gotten a bit small for the three of them to stick their heads and shoulders in comfortably.

He'd like to tell them to move their fat heads and let him work, but Over is his acoustics expert and Rom is a wizard with bugs and electronics, and they're all three (supposedly) equals in this venture. Much as they irritate the hell of him, they're also somehow his two best friends (and minions, though they probably don't see it quite that way), and he needs their expertise to set these bugs properly.

"_Ja_, and nobody ever gonna suspect we try this one again," R is saying.

"No more floodin' gardens," O agrees, and at that cue, they say together in a pretty decent mimicry of Constance's voice, "_Whaddya mean, 'the taters are rotted'_?" then fall into fits of helpless, silent giggles.

"Can it 'fore somebody hear us," Paran hisses irritably.

He hates when they talk in unison almost as much as he hates being reminded of the infamous incident where they ended up attempting to plant bugs in pipes that, unbeknownst to them, were indeed still in use. Well, they were younger then, and now they know better. Still, it's a standing joke that P _always_ gets caught breaking the brass rules, and though it's not true, he sure seems to get stuck washing dishes a lot more often than anyone else; certainly nobody ever lets him forget those occasions on which he's messed up big time.

"Yep, yep," Over says easily.

"Don' wanna getcha stuck inna kitchen again," says Rom.

Paran scowls. With a forceful jerk of his shoulder and a protesting screech of rusted metal, the pipe seal finally gives way. Making sure he's not actually _under _the pipe (he's had all kinds of nasty stuff drip on him out of supposedly 'unused' pipes before), P jiggles the U-bend until it scrapes free.

"Yeah!" R and O cheer quietly.

Setting the bug is the easy part. Half of their work was done days ago, making the bugs and choosing the pipes with the best placement and easiest access. Once this last mic is set, they can start adjusting the receivers and recorders to filter out the unwanted echoes and overlapping voices. It takes just seconds for Over to nudge a wad of Devon's 'stick4ever' putty into the pipe and for Rom to carefully work the bug into it.

"Ok then," the younger boys chorus once they're satisfied, and Paran rolls back over to close up the pipes again.

A bit of grime from the floor of the cabinet hides the shiny silver scratches left by the wrench, some dabbing with a dirty towel gets rid of any handprints. Their now filthy jumpers get crammed into Rom's backpack—they'll go play around outside a bit later in them to account for the dirt. Then Rom and Over go one way, because whenever they're apart it's a little bit suspicious, and Paran goes the other, because if he's seen with them coming out of the sub-basement it'll definitely alert kids who are paying attention that they've been up to something. _Everyone_ remembers the flooding incident, and a few figured out that the story they cooked up for Marta about making improvements to the plumbing system was a load of hooey.

They meet back up in O's room, where he finds them already hunched over the receivers, turning knobs and dials and fiddling with the antenna. Over's face is a little broader, and Rom's hair is a little curlier, but the two of them could easily be brothers. They even _sound _something alike, as O mumbles tunelessly along with his music and R mutters to himself in Russian.

"'E's here!" Rom yells at Over when Paran walks in, punching his arm to get his attention. Peeling his oversized headphones away from one ear, O looks back at Paran, both of them regarding him with twin expressions of grim disappointment.

"What?" he demands. "What wrong? No signal?"

His stomach plummets. They've spent weeks developing those stupid bugs and figuring out their perfect placement—this is a setback of days at least, maybe even more weeks, and the new class session is starting next week. They're not going to have nearly as much time to work on this.

Dammit, why does everything he attempts go wrong?

But though R manages to shake his head, the corners of his mouth twitching, Over can't hold back his snigger.

"You little nose-pickers," P snaps bad-temperedly, kicking some cords out of his way, and the other two boys start rolling with laughter.

"Works like charms!" Rom crows, and Over chimes in, "Not hardly any static, either, just echoes."

"An' you can't just say so, gotta prank some stupid joke outtuvit," Paran grumbles, dropping down to sit next to his 'friends'.

"Lighten up, P," the other two reply, rolling their eyes.

"It just a tiny _bitty_ prank. Hardly even count," Rom continues, waving a careless hand.

Paran scowls. "Whatever. Lemme hear that 'ceiver."

They're right. The reception is excellent. Already he can hear the faint overlapping echoes of two different conversations from the teachers' offices two floors above the sub-basement utility sink. A bit of filtering, a bit of sound adjustment, and they'll be in business.

It's all great, but Paran can't help but be a little cross that those things that actually work out in his favor are the ones he can't brag to everyone about.


	37. Time's Up

37. Time's Up

_Tick…tick…tick…_

…

Automatically Karter lifts his wrist to check his suddenly silent watches.

His wrist is bare.

Panic rushes down on him, and he staves it off with an effort. It's ok. Everything is ok. If he doesn't have Father and Halstein's watches, it must be because they're still alive, still wearing them. Right? He's pretty sure.

But they said they'd be home by five o'clock and it's ten minutes after, then the phone starts ringing, ringing, with news he's too young to hear. He already knows what the man on the other end of the line is going to tell him….

With a muffled shout, K wakes, thrashing in his tangled sheets.

Just a dream. It was just a dream.

Not that waking is an improvement, because his father and brother are still dead. But at least the warm clasp of the three watches is still there, the one analog timepiece ticking like a tiny heartbeat against his own pulse.

Pressing his hands to his forehead, Karter struggles to even out his breathing. He's parched. He needs a glass of water. The plastic cup on his bedside table is empty.

After refilling it in the bathroom sink, he splashes some cold water on his face, swiping back the wild curls that stick to his face. His bright blue eyes look just like Halstein's; he knows because he remembers a little old lady at church telling them so, a lifetime ago. For a moment he tries to hold his own gaze but he can't do it for long.

According to schedule, Karter usually sleeps until 7:00 am sharp. He doesn't feel much like sleeping, though, and what does it matter? The memorial is tomorrow, so everything will be all wrong and at different times anyway. Carrying his water with him, he wanders down to the foyer. Tonight, he thinks he can get away with it. Tonight the aides are busy with kids who are in a lot worse shape than he is.

He likes mornings—literally, the time from 12:00 am til 11:59 am, before the military watch moves on to 13, 14, 15 and the other digital watch rolls back to 1, 2, 3. During those twelve hours his watch and Halstein's are perfectly synced, with Father's watch counting the march of the seconds out loud. Watching the numbers change simultaneously calms him. Inside and out, all three watches are different—from Father's heavy old gold-and-lacquer antique, to Halstein's professional steel-and-gadget army issue watch, to Karter's watch, a plastic piece of crap that he saved his allowance to buy from the convenience store while still in foster care. It's a miracle that it's lasted this long. But they all count time the same.

Karter wonders what happened to Mr. W's watch. It was a pretty one, silver-plated with a mother-of-pearl face. Of course, nobody, including Mr. W, would ever have considered for a second to give it to K. He has no right. Still, he feels like he'd feel a little better if he knew where it was.

Their benefactor's body is on the other side of the world right now, though, and the closest he has are these paintings in the entryway.

K likes Linda's the best, though he would never tell that bossy loudmouth so. It's the only one with the watch clearly there.

One of them is actually Karter's, though technically he can't say it's a portrait. Art is not exactly a talent of his. A couple summers ago during the week-long Broaden Your Horizons seminar series, he'd been stuck with either braiding lanyards, Tagolog for beginners, or painting. K figured learning English was bad enough, he wasn't about to take on some obscure dialect that he'd probably never use again, and what the heck was he going to do with a lanyard? So he'd splashed some paint around into a vague gooey blob with orange tentacles, and when the teacher dubiously asked him what it was he jokingly replied in a hurt-child voice that it was Mr. W, obviously.

He and Nina and Lazlo thought it was hilarious when they actually put it up on the Wammy wall with the others, N commenting that next to Aris's blue-octopus version of the man it didn't really look so out of place. Now he wishes that he hadn't said that, or that he actually had tried to do a real picture.

"I can't believe they didn't even tell us for a week," comes a voice from the stairs, making Karter almost jump out of his skin. A glance at his watches shows he's been staring at the paintings for nearly twenty minutes, unaware of his surroundings.

With a humorless huff of a laugh, Aris unfolds herself from her seat on the bottom step, padding almost silently across the foyer to stand a few yards away, examining the only photo print on the wall, taken by Quinn right before Mr. W and L left for Japan.

"Just cuz none of us gonna be successors," the girl goes on bitterly. "_Jeez_, Warden. Let the Twins have their stupid L. He fail anyway. But Mr. W belong to _all_ of us."

It's not the first time since they were briefed on L and Mr. W's deaths that he's heard this sentiment. Of course, many of them knew what had happened before the brass finally told them, thanks to the overlapping network jumble of wiretaps and bugs in the place. In any case, though, a lot of fights have been breaking out between distraught kids, some of whom now resent L, some of whom staunchly defend him. Nina even blurted out that it was L's fault Mr. W had died, and Lazlo hadn't reasoned with her like he often does when she goes too far, just shrugged dispassionately and went through half a pack of cigarettes in what Karter figured had to be some sort of record time.

Should he be angry? He was at first, but K has never been able to stay mad for long. Usually he replaces his anger with laughing at something funny about the situation, and it makes everything a little better.

There's not much that's funny about this, though.

The Kira jokes started to fall flat over a year ago, when it became clear that the killer was going to be around and killing for a good long while and the death toll continued to mount. And now, the future of the House itself is in question. It's taken the brass a week just to tell them L and Mr. W are dead; how long might it take before they tell them what's going to become of them? Karter's not really sure how these things work. Does the House still have money without Mr. W? Will the House stay as is, or will they all be scattered, sent away to other facilities?

Even the succession isn't a joke now. It has always had a sort of satiric irony about it, the whole song and dance of pretending they might succeed L, when clearly that was a place reserved for Mello and Near. A month ago he would have found it hysterical that Mello would walk away like this, leaving Near to deal with the mess by himself.

Actually he did think it was kind of funny until yesterday morning, when he caught a glimpse of Near sitting with his back to the wall in a little-used hallway, balancing an unsteady tower of markers. It had collapsed after only eight tiers, and the frustration had been clear on the older boy's face. K had almost, almost laughed, until it occurred to him that _that_ was L now. _That_ was the new champion of the House, possibly the only person who could stop Kira before that crazy nutter decimated the population. Karter had found himself wondering:

What if Near failed too?

Near had looked rather as though he were wondering the exact same thing. Suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore, and K had hurried on his way without saying anything.

He's not angry anymore, or trying to laugh it off. He's just…sad.

"You unusually quiet," Aris comments, snapping him back to the present. "Awake in there?"

"Yeah, guess so."

"What, no stupid jokes?"

Karter forces a smile. "I let you know if I think of one."

"Hnn. You a lot less annoying this time'a day." A seems to consider this a green light to continue venting. "This just all so wrong. Kira better be born a slug next time round. A half of a slug, that get eaten by a bird almost immediately, then puked out in a volcano! If anyone shoulda died it shoulda be _him. _Mr. W never do anything wrong, never hurt anyone! It just not fair," she concludes, seeming suddenly worn out by her own tirade.

According to his watches, it's almost five in the morning. Sighing, he drops his arm to his side and traces the face of his father's watch with one finger. "Everybody time run out eventually."


	38. Shoes

**AN: Incidentally, I'm up to Near over on the Wammy Letter Banners on dA.**

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38. Shoes

Another morning, another breakfast, another day of topsy-turvy carnival pandemonium.

When Moira first came to live and work as an aide at the House, she didn't think she'd ever acclimate to the noise or the kids' heartbreaking problems and ingenious pranks. After one chaotic week, she came this close to saying _forget it_, maybe it wasn't so awful being on her own. Sure, her psychotic abusive stalker ex-boyfriend was still out there somewhere, and he'd found her everywhere else she tried to hide, and would probably try to kill her again if he caught up with her. But she could just try harder. The fake identity that Mr. W set up for her would tide her over for a while at least. She's smart enough that she could probably learn Chinese in two months. She'd go live in some remote mountain village. Farming couldn't be that bad, could it? True, she didn't get a Master's degree in child psychology just so she could hoe cabbages, but she didn't exactly plan on using it to corral wild geniuses either.

She'd been convinced to stay, though, and it's actually a pretty good deal. She can still do research, she actually learns a lot more from her fellow aides and from the kids themselves than she thought she would, and now simultaneously filling Una's cup with milk and prying the butter dish away from Paran so that Qarri can butter her toast and telling Rom and Over that she's going to make sure they eat all of the sausage pieces they're throwing at each other even if they _do_ fall on the floor is simply second nature. It's also second nature that in the midst of this scene of confusion, she notices there's a head missing from its usual place at the table she's monitoring.

"Where's Vince?" Moira asks the table as she puts the lid back on the milk. "Here you go, Qarri. Una, what do we say?"

"T'ank oo," Una whispers, mortified at being directly addressed and hunching behind her milk glass.

"Thanks, _Moira_," says Q loudly, throwing a dirty look at Paran as she accepts the butter dish, and he sticks his tongue out at her. "Dunno, haven't seen Mr. Sunshine today yet."

"Maybe he fell inna pond," Over suggests, even more loudly.

"Maybe the pond monsta eated him!" Rom agrees enthusiastically.

"Don't be stupid, there no monster in the pond. That just a _blakabaka_ story Gao make up to scare _little kids_," Qarri says scornfully.

"Maybe pond monsta gonna eat you next for sayin' he not real!" Rom lunges at her with a large toothy grin and a roar.

"Moira, make him stop being dumb!"

"There's no need for name-calling, Qarri. Rom, why don't you chew on your food instead of Q's arm," Moira says patiently, pulling Rom upright and putting his fork in his hand. "Paran, did Vince get up this morning?"

P shrugs sullenly. "Dunno."

"Well I'll go check then. Jeremy! Can you watch my table for a second?"

"Mello, if you don't stop poking Near I'm going to have Linda come sit between you two. What's that, Moira?" The aide at the next table over turns, looking a little harried.

"What? That's not fair!" Linda wails, as Moira repeats, "Can you take my table for a sec? I'm gonna go check on V."

"I saw that, Near. You behave too. Uh, sure, but come back soon, 'k?"

"You guys show Jeremy's table how good a Wammy kid can be at breakfast, alrighty?" Moira tells her group. She can't help but smile a little at how effective the challenge is; glancing back over her shoulder on her way across the room she sees even Rom and Over are sitting nicely in their places and eating (albeit with their hands and not their silverware), throwing looks of smug superiority at the other table where Mello and Near are still jostling each other. After letting Marta know where she's headed, Moira slips out of the dining hall and heads for the dormitories.

The rest of the House is sleepily quiet, in stark contrast to the chatter and sausage-scented craziness concentrated in the dining hall. Coming up to Vince's bedroom door, Moira finds it shut, but she can clearly hear him singing to himself.

"Vince?" she calls, knocking.

"C'min!" answers his cheerful little voice.

Moira has to bite the inside her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter at the sight that meets her eyes when she opens the door.

V is sitting in the middle of the floor, his pajama legs rolled up to the knees. Right beside him is a brand-new sneaker, gotten just yesterday. The other is on his foot, the laces wrapped up around his ankle and tied into a tangled wad that would rival the Gordian knot.

"It's time for breakfast," she tells him, still struggling not to laugh at him. "You don't want to miss it, do you?"

"No," says V, beaming at her and bending back over the knot, which he is currently trying to loosen with a pen cap. "I gonna wear my new shoes to brea'fast! But I din' know the bows so I maked my own knot. I invented it," he tells her proudly. "But now I gotta un-invent it a little bit."

"I can see that," Moira says, returning his brilliant smile helplessly. "Here, why don't you teach me and we can both work on it."

"Well, ok then."

"You know, Vince, you don't need to wear shoes to breakfast. Marta might get a little bit upset about shoes on her floor," Moira points out gently as Vince sits back and lets her attempt to subdue the monstrous shoelace knot.

"Ma Marta don' like dirts onna floor," the little boy points out brightly. "New shoes don't got any dirts."

"That's true," Moira admits. His eager attitude is infectious, and she remembers how excited he was yesterday during try-on time. Most of the kids get cranky during new-clothes days; they don't like any of the colors, they're tired of trying things on, they'd rather keep their old favorite pajamas even though they have a hole in them, the shirt they like doesn't fit but they try to pretend it does, they have homework and don't want to be distracted just to try on t-shirts. Vince, on the other hand, lit up like a little light bulb when he saw the white shoes with the green stripes on the sides, strutting around proudly in them with his normally happy grin stretched so wide Moira thought his face might break in half. "Tell you what. Just for today we'll ask Marta if you can let everyone see your awesome new shoes. Ok? Then after that you can keep them nice just for outside Play Time. _Hao ba_?"

"_Hao a_!" Vince agrees excitedly, waggling his feet.

Right. Now she just has to get this thing untied. Moira hopes everything is going ok at the table for Jeremy, because this might take a few minutes.


	39. Sighting

39. Sighting

He always looks sad, the mirror-boy, and he's fast, because whenever Quinn sees him out of the corner of her eye and tries to snap a picture, he's gone before she can get her camera focused. Not that that keeps her from trying when she sees him.

It's not often that it happens, though, and little Q learned even before Mr. W found her and brought her here that other people's eyes don't work very well. For a while Beckon was an exception; and he was hesitant to admit it to her when Quinn saw the boy in the yard one evening and ran to him, the closest person she saw.

"Beck, there was a stranger!" she'd whispered to the older boy, afraid and excited; strangers weren't allowed at Wammy's, and another thing that she learned about people before Mr. W were that strangers could be mean and bad and horrible even if they didn't look it, but he had looked so sad and afraid himself that she was mostly curious. Before she could save her sighting with the camera, though, he'd vanished.

"What? A stranger? At Wammy's? An unLettered one?" he'd looked around quickly, and Quinn had wanted to take a picture of him, because Beckon always had rainbows in his head and she almost imagined they were swirling when he moved like that.

"I dunno. He just a kid. A big kid. Like you."

"What he look like?"

"White with dark hair," she'd said, "and he was really sad."

"Oh," Beck had said, "him," in a voice that made it clear he knew who she was talking about.

"You saw him too?"

"No, I—not just now. Once. But he doesn't have any colors. I don't…I don't think you should tell anyone about him, Q. I don't think he real."

And that had been the last Beckon would say about the mirror-boy. And then a few months later, Beck was gone.

Quinn hasn't asked anybody else about the boy since then, nor about a whole list of other things; she's started having to draw a little picture list of them for herself to remember which things are things that everybody looks at, and which show themselves for her eyes only. Some of the subtle things she can show other people with her camera, and they call it "art", which is funny. But most are best kept private. Outside when she shared her sightings her aunt and uncle thought she was hallucinating, and took her to a bad old man who said she had to take yucky medicine that didn't do anything. It's safer this way.

So Quinn remembers not to shout when she sees that Mello's face is on fire, and she doesn't talk to the young man who sits next to Karter at meals sometimes and looks just like him, and she doesn't ask anyone else if they see the mirror-boy.

Of course, that doesn't mean she doesn't try to hunt him down every time she _does_ sight him.

"Gotcha!" Q whispers triumphantly to herself. _Click!_

Seizing the Polaroid eagerly, her shoulders promptly slump in disappointment. The doorway of the common room is empty; the mirror-boy has gotten away again.

"Oh no you don't, not this time," she mutters, and clatters down the stairs, camera aimed like a weapon. She bursts in, ready to shoot.

But the mirror-boy is long gone, of course. The common room is still and empty except for Icarus, who looks up briefly from where she's curled up in the windowseat then returns her gaze to the article she's reading, uninterested in the adventures of a child.

The much older girl is practically as much of a ghost as the mirror-boy, silently drifting about the place like a cloud of mist. The first few days Quinn came to the House she couldn't stop staring whenever she saw her, unable to determine which face was real—the pretty, unmarred one, or the one with the scarred and mangled lips. They switched and overlapped depending on how Q tilted her head like an optical illusion. A quick, sneaky snapshot had settled the issue, ending her interest.

Quinn decides to ignore Icarus and pouts to herself. Stupid mirror-boy! What's he so scared of, anyway? Sulking, she kicks her way around the room for a bit, examining the books and games and puzzles stacked up along the walls.

This is plenty to distract her, not that it takes much. Some of the games are old, buried at the bottom and with faded boxes and whose rules she doesn't know, and some are recognizable favorites in the House, with boxes that have been taped and repaired several times. She likes the fossil-layer color stripes of them, so she raises her camera to snap a quick photo.

There he is!

Quinn whirls around, trying to catch the phantom at the edge of her vision and clicking a picture of blurred nothing.

The mirror-boy is gone again, but now Icarus is staring at her, slanted eyes narrowing in suspicion. Sitting up a little, the young woman beckons to Q, who curiously goes to her. She's probably just going to tell her to stop being annoying and go away, but that's more than they've ever talked before, and maybe it could be interesting.

Quinn doesn't know any sign language. She peers down as Icarus flips over the PDF she's reading and writes on the blank back side,

_You just saw someone, didn't you?_

Mouth dropping open, Q blurts loudly in surprise, "You saw him too?"

Scowling, Icarus brings a single finger sharply to her mouth. Then she shakes her head, tapping one ear.

"You can hear him?" Quinn says eagerly, but much more quietly. The older girl nods, then returns pencil to paper.

_Don't worry, he doesn't want to hurt anyone. Stop chasing him._

"You know who he is, don't you?" she whispers excitedly, but the other girl frowns, clearly annoyed by her curiosity.

"Come on, just tell me who he is," Quinn wheedles. "Why does he always look so sad?"

At that, Icarus's face grows sadder, and she writes reluctantly, _He used to live here. He was_

Quinn looks up as the older girl stops writing, impatient. "He was what? He not here no more, _ma ne_? Does he belong to someone here, like Karter's mirror-friend?"

She shakes her head, clearly struggling over how much to tell Q, and Quinn wants to shake her and yell to just tell her everything, but Icarus might decide not to tell her a single thing if she does. Finally she scribbles out _was _and finishes the sentence, _He died._

It all clicks into place and she gasps. "Died _here_? It A, innit? Like in the ghost stories the bigger kids tell—about Alt and Ba-"

A curt, furious gesture from Icarus cuts her off. _They're not stories and they shouldn't talk about it, _she writes, scribbling so quickly in her anger that it's barely legible. _Leave him alone. If you can sense him then you're vulnerable here. E and Beck couldn't stand it anymore and now they're gone. If you don't want to get scrubbed too you'll ignore him and not tell anybody. Just forget all about it._

And all the petulant nagging and pleading Quinn can muster won't drag another word from Icarus, except a dire threat to hack her computer and destroy her system if she ever brings it up again.


	40. Miscarriage

40. Miscarriage

"Geoffrey, why don't you go out and get some potatoes for tomorrow," Constance orders when she sees Dr. Torres in the kitchen doorway, shooing her assistants out the garden door with a no-nonsense snap of her dish towel. "Sandry, Merrit, give him a hand. I can finish up prep."

"But-we're in the middle of-"

"Yes, three baskets of potatoes shall do us famously," Constances says loudly, overriding them. There's never really much to be gained by arguing.

Waving the younger woman in, the old chef puts the kettle on. "Tea?"

"Please. Thank you," says the psychologist, sitting down stiffly at the kitchen table. Tension draws tightly at her shoulders and the corners of her mouth, making her look much older than she is.

Constance gives her time to settle a little, marching around the kitchen and getting teacups, biscuits, scones, crumpets, far more food than she knows the slender Spanish woman could possibly eat, but she's always been of the opinion that good, hearty food comforts hurting hearts as effectively as it fills empty stomachs. Pouring a cup of raspberry tea and dosing it liberally with honey, she hands it to the other woman and sits her creaking frame down across the table from her.

"I've just been speaking with the headmaster," Torres says in a voice of forced calm.

"About Yuan?"

"Yes." She purses her lips tightly, staring down at her teacup.

Constance sighs, raking thick fingers through her short, greying hair. "How is the lad?"

"Asleep, last I consulted Verity. She expects he will make a full physical recovery." With a sudden sharp sigh, she presses her manicured hands to her forehead. "Dr. Foeler identified the injected substance as some sort of cocktail of plant DNA and protein synthesis catalysts."

"Was it…."

"Not lethal, no. I don't believe it was a suicide attempt," Dr. Torres says, then lets out a short, humorless laugh. "I suspect…he was attempting to effect a metamorphosis of some kind. Turn himself into a plant hybrid. Clearly unsupported by everything Professor Foeler had already told him several times, as well as his own work and research. Clearly a result of delusion, and not…well. He wants to be a tree. Not much else to say."

"Has he been told yet?" Constance asks gently.

"No," she says, closing her eyes. "Not yet. He's not quite stable. I didn't want to…I couldn't…God."

Instinct prompts Constance to move, sitting beside the young psychologist and putting a comforting arm around her. Within moments the doctor is sobbing into her shoulder.

"They're dropping like flies. Beckon, Fallon, Mello, Xie, and now Yuan…and half a dozen more who are just this close to the edge. God, what am I doing wrong?"

"Hush now, lass," the old woman tells her. "For every one that we can't help, there are several more that thrive. You're handling a lot of extraordinary cases at the same time. Not just any doc could do a fraction as well as you've already done. You're not a magician."

"But for every one…they take it so _hard_," she cries, voice muffled. "It's like they've been exiled to the worst imaginable…. They think it's their own fault, like they've been too bad for me to fix…I'm just giving up on them."

"You're not giving up on 'em. You're making a difficult decision for their own benefit," Constance contradicts her firmly, patting her back. All of her children were boys. She finds herself wondering momentarily what it would have been like to have a daughter, and shoves the thought away before it digs too deep.

After a while Torres draws away. "Thanks, Constance," she says, not sounding at all like she really believes her. Propping up an elbow on the table, she picks a chocolate biscuit off the tray. "You know what they call it?" she asks moodily, staring into space. "Scrubbing. As though they're dirt we have to clean out of the place."

"I'm sure that's not what they—"

"I'm sure it is," Torres says, taking a huge bite of the biscuit. "This is really good," she mumbles, another stray tear slipping down her cheek.

Constance smiles sadly. "Yuan can be quite endearing," she points out. "And he's not so very old. He has a relatively good chance for adoption."

"You needn't coddle me, Connie," Torres sighs, combing back a few dark strands that have escaped her strict bun and choosing another biscuit disconsolately. "Many of them—well, they claim anyway—don't even want to be adopted…. This is such a rarefied social climate. We let them become acclimated to certain attitudes toward—toward their gifts, and their behaviors, and then to send them back to a society that will never understand them…." Another chocolate cookie disappears. "Sometimes I think we are doing as much harm in removing them from Wammy's as we would be if we didn't transfer them to a psychiatric facility. It's a stressful program, but…it's still their home."

The proper and official reply would be that the House is an institution with an agenda, and that decisions must be made on the basis of forwarding that agenda and not in sympathy to every individual case that comes along. Whatever the legal papers say, it's not an orphanage, and they can't function as one.

Instead she says nothing, because anything she says will be either criticizing Mr. W or will just make Torres feel worse, and takes a biscuit from the tray as well.


	41. Heist

**AN: Hopefully this is not too hard to follow...Wanted to see how many different characters I could juggle simultaneously.**

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* * *

**41. Heist

Hunter always coils his socks together in their pairs, packing the resulting rolls into the smallest possible space. So when one left sock is removed from its roll and its partner left lying loose in the drawer, he notices almost immediately. A quick dash down the stairs and to Jitter's door confirms what H already knew.

"It not funny, J!" he yells through the door when he hears the older boy giggling hysterically from inside, and yanks his sock down from its pin. It's the fifth time this month and Hunter is getting sick of it. Big kid or not, Jitter is long overdue a little bit of revenge.

It's time for a war council.

"Whoa. You alla sure plan this out down to bits," Zane comments, examining the detailed scale diagram Hunter has drawn out on his whiteboarded wall.

"It just a sketch," Hunter says modestly.

"Look like fun," Vince chirps.

"It look overly complicated," mutters Devon from the other side of the room, where he's lounging against the wall twiddling an unlit cigarette in his slender fingers. "You know the more part involved the more likely something go wrong?"

"How bad can it be? At least give him a chance to 'splain it," V replies brightly.

"Really bad," D grumbles, under his breath so Vince can't hear him.

"Ok so, here how it go," Hunter says, ignoring his friend's entirely typical reaction. Gesturing with a laser pointer, he explains, "At 7:20 I gonna send J a message what look like it from capital G, say come down to the compy lab. When he get there V gonna distract him, ask for maths help. I go distract G just in case so he don' ruin the distraction. While we keep them away, D and Z can sneak inna J's room at 7:26 with a bag—" he holds up a spare pillowcase taken from the linen closet, "and empty out _his_ sock drawer! That should take five minute max, so we'll let J and G go at 7:32 so they can 'scape clean. Then we meet alla back here at 7:35."

"It takes two people to empty a sock drawer?" Devon says, arching a skeptical brow.

"One'a hold the bag and one'a put the socks in," Hunter answers, as though it's obvious. Which it is.

"You really did bit-plan this one," Vince laughs.

"What if someone see us draggin' a bag'a someone else clothes down the hall?" asks D flatly.

"Meh. Doubt anyone'a care," Zane points out, idly clicking his tape measure. "Any letters prolly have a laugh to get back at him—who hasn't had _they_ socks pinned? And if a brass monkey stop us, just lie. We can say it for a game or some stupid thing."

"This is gonna be _hilarious_," says Vince, barely able to contain his glee. "Gonna be so great…."

"_If_ it work," Devon says darkly.

"What could go wrong? H got it plan down to a molecule."

"Yeah, and the more you plan the more there is to mess up."

"You know," Zane tells the ceiling off-handedly, "Forget Murphy. They shoulda call it Devon's Law."

Devon scowls as the other boys laugh. "Well, Murphy was a pretty observant guy for a wormbait."

"So are we in or not?" Hunter says, bringing them back on track and punching one fist into his other hand eagerly.

"Yeah, sounds great!" Vince agrees immediately.

"Sure, whatever," is Zane's rather less bubbly response, and Devon frowns around his cold cigarette as everyone turns to him.

"Fine, but I still think it gonna hitch," he mutters.

"If you didn't we'd probly take you to the infirmary to get you head checked," H says, grinning. D's grumblings nonwithstanding, he's convinced the Great Sock Heist is guaranteed to proceed seamlessly.

The war council is abruptly interrupted, however, by a loud _bang-bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang-bang _at the door.

"Viiiince! You there? We know you are!" comes Echo's voice.

"No he not! Go away!" Hunter yells back, frowning. Girls are _not_ invited to war councils.

"Don't be a butthead, Tinfoil," the girl retorts through the door. "We not deaf. You got Sunshine and Murphy and Zane all in there with you!"

"How come I don't get a dumb nickname?" Z asks no one in particular.

"You can have mine," Hunter offers irritably. He stopped wearing the 'radio-wave-protection' hat ages ago, but Echo will probably keep calling him that forever. Unless something _more_ embarrassing comes up—heaven forbid.

"We just wanna borrow him for a minute anyway," E goes on. "We can't read he handwriting on these history notes!"

"Borrow him later! We busy!"

"Not laughing at Murphy now, are you?" Devon says smugly.

"It no big deal, H. I don't mind helpin' 'em," says Vince. "It only take a second."

"That not the point," Hunter protests. "We in a meeting. Boys only!"

"Well, sor_ry_ for messing up you clubhouse," E says sniffily. "Can't you just spend an extra hour later throwin' rocks at fences or biting frogs or whatever it is boys do to exorcise our girly infection of your stupid meeting?"

"I bet I could kick the door down," Wiley's voice suggests.

"That a good idea, Dubs, go for it."

"Just let 'em in. Get it over with or they never gonna go away," Zane says, rolling his eyes.

"Well—fine," H grumbles reluctantly.

"Thanks for gettin' through to Tinfoil, Zany," Echo says breezily when he opens the door grudgingly for her and Wiley. "He can be so _stubborn_ and _immature_."

"…Zany? Somehow I feel like you didn't really try very hard'a come up with that," Z comments as Hunter scowls at her.

"Well, do somethin' stupid and I come up with somethin' better," she replies generously, flopping down on the floor and making herself right at home next to Vince. Wiley hesitates before joining her, awkwardly folding her fast-growing limbs down; they're all just barely eleven and she's already shot up almost a head taller than every boy in the room.

"What happened'a C? Why don't you get _her_ to help you with it?" Devon asks, noticeably altering his stance to lean more elegantly and flourishing the cigarette with practiced careless grace.

"She hasn't even started on the history essay yet. Too bogged workin' on kickin' _your _butt on the Innovative Engineering project," Echo says distractedly, watching over V's shoulder as he rewrites more clearly all the bits on the page that she and W have circled in bright pink pen. "She probly puttin' firecrackers in you desk while you busy scrumbling around with—" she glances askance up at Hunter's whiteboard. "The 'Great Sock Heist.' What the heck kinda wormbait project is _that_?"

"Hey! That's secret! No girls!" Hunter roars, rushing to roll another whiteboard panel in front of his diagram.

"I can see why," Wiley comments dryly.

"V, are you done _yet_?"

"Just about," the other boy says cheerfully. "There y'go. Zat everything?"

"Yeppers. Those few _quick_ little _teeny tiny_ clarifications were all we needed," Echo says, looking pointedly at Hunter. "Thanks, Sunshine, you the bestest."

"Ok, then go away," snaps H.

"Bye, weirdos," she says in parting as the two girls head out, and he snaps the door shut behind them and locks it.

"Bye!" Vince calls back.

"Don't answer to that!" Hunter says irritably, shaking his head and trying to recollect his dignity. Stupid E, ruining their deadly-serious war council. What do girls know about planning legendary heists in the name of vengeance, anyway?


	42. Letters

42. Letters

He's starting to get concerned and Hopper's not one to stew in his anxiety so the third time Dex slips off on a Wednesday afternoon he follows him and witnesses his best friend letting himself out the front gate and walking briskly down the road toward Winchester.

When he comes back an hour later, Hopper is lounging against the wall with a book, waiting.

"Should I be worried 'bout you?"

Because there's plenty he might worry about. They'd both already been feeling amputated and unbalanced since Concord left, and then there was L and Mr. W being killed so suddenly and all, and, well—things have just changed a lot.

D has to stop and think about it, Hopper can see it, even though it's a mere split second. "No," he says, and then, before H even has to ask where the hell he's been going, "Wanna come with next week?"

* * *

It's overcast and spitting half-heartedly out but Hopper still considers himself a country boy at heart (though he's become anything but) and several years of tuning and meteorology classes have driven in the fact that Winchester just _doesn't have_ tornados, so he doesn't mind too much. They stride along through the puddles with their hoods up and hands shoved deep in their zip-up pockets. There's no need to ask Dex where they're going, or why. He'll find out when they get there.

Hopper didn't have any expectations, but he's still surprised when they arrive at the Kings Worthy post office. He's never been inside one before, and isn't sure what to make of it now. Dex produces a key from his pocket and goes directly for the wall of post boxes. Hopper waits by the front window and bemusedly skims over the ads posted there. _Car For Sale. Looking for Babysitter. Swim with GymCo at King's Pool._ The babysitter is the one that really catches his eye. He's not entirely sure what a babysitter is—it can't possibly be what it literally sounds like.

Dex taps him on the arm to get his attention. Hopper actually did hear him approach. He is listening to everything right now, is watching everything at once. Nothing is familiar. The unconscious effort of keeping a lookout for any danger that might spring out at them is pulling his neck and shoulders wire-tight.

His friend is holding a letter—an honest-to-God paper snail-mail letter, stamp and all. Hopper almost forgot those existed.

"I think there's a sort of a…pub…restaurant…across the street," D says, speaking in Swedish. He seems just as uncomfortable and edgy Out here as Hopper feels, eyes catching on everything that moves, even though he must have been in this very place before, alone. H already had a lot of respect for his friend but he's still pretty impressed that he had the nerve to come rent the post box in the first place, and wonders if one of the brass helped him. "We could grab a bite before going back."

His gut reaction is to reply, "Why the hell would we want to do that?" but it hits him like a bucket of water on a winter morning that a year from now, they won't have a House to go back to. They'll be living Outside full time, and they might as well get used to it now.

So they head over to The Cart & Horses and are ushered to a tiny table by a window. They both order the soup of the day because it's the first item listed on the chalkboard at the front. They've used menus a couple times before on field trips, but…small steps.

Hopper scopes out the place while Dex slits open his letter and reads it. The table really is miniscule compared to the great long ones in the dining hall at home. A nanotable. He's not sure if any dishes will actually fit along with the salt and pepper and assortment of other condiments already there. It's weirdly quiet, too, nothing like the chattering chaos of the House at mealtimes; the only other customers are up at the bar, and the two of them are tucked into an out-of-the-way nook. His eyes go to the ceiling and corners of the room to find the cameras and he is startled to discover there are none. That makes him feel even more uneasy. Then with a jolt he realizes that both he and Dex have automatically turned in their chairs to put their backs to the wall, facing outward so they can't be walked up on, and he can't help but chuckle a little at their own paranoia.

"Want to read it?"

His friend has finished reading his mystery letter, and is proffering it tentatively.

"It's from C," Dex says. "She wouldn't mind."

Paper mail from Concord, is it? Whose fingers are practically wired into her computer keyboard? That's telling in itself. Carefully, because he can tell that it's important to D despite his off-handed tone, Hopper accepts the paper and unfolds it. It's slow going (her painstaking cursive and spelling are truly atrocious) but he's only a few lines in before it becomes clear that the tone of this letter is radically different from the slew of sisterly catch-up, vent-and-rant, I-miss-you-all emails he's gotten from her. Skipping down to the bottom, the final salutation confirms suspicions he's been keeping to himself for well over a year.

_Love, Bethany._

"Wow," he hears himself say, and he's quietly astonished and not surprised at all at the same time. Dex is watching him sidelong to gauge his reaction, fiddling anxiously with his napkin. Hopper lets his grin break free and claps his friend on the shoulder. "About damn time."

And Dex grins back, relieved and practically shining.

"Best and worst moment of my life," D confesses a little while later. They're still speaking in Swedish. No one seems to be listening and Hopper is pretty sure that Outside doesn't have bugs everywhere like the House does, but it can't hurt to be cautious.

"Worst?" He blows on his soup to cool it. It's good. Not as good as Constance could make it though. "She gave you her name. Pretty serious stuff. Too serious too soon?"

"No," says Dex. "It's just—" his eyes drop to the table and his voice drops to a whisper. "I can't remember _my_ name."

Hopper's spoon hovers, forgotten, in front of his open mouth.

"Yeah." Mouth tight, D rips off a chunk of bread and dunks it a little more aggressively than necessary into his soup. "Went to Warden and asked, after. Turns out when they destroy our records, they _really _destroy our records. He say Mr. W the only one who keep the record. And, well."

"They fizzt when he pulled the plug," H finishes for him.

"So there I am, she just give me her name and I…." Dex makes an empty gesture. "Got nothing."

"That wouldn't matter to Concord."

"Yeah. I know," he says broodingly. "Still."

"Yeah."

"I gotta find that name."

It's surreal, having this conversation with the man who's been his best friend since they were eight, in a pub Outside on the edge of Winchester. They probably know almost everything there is to know about each other, and for what seems like the first time he realizes that 'almost everything' isn't 'everything'. He's not sure how important he thinks those gaps are, but now that his mind is on it, it occurs to him he has no reason to keep something like his name secret from Dex and Concord, not anymore. The succession has already long passed them by. It's habit more than anything—he's been Hopper longer than he was Amos.

He won't give it now, though, and make Dex feel worse. The guy is finally starting to move on from that horrible nightmare with Alt and B, and the last thing he needs is to have this whole name thing rubbed in his face so he can beat himself up about it. It can wait.

"Where you gonna start?"

"London," says D, hesitantly at first, then growing bolder. "I think…I remember roundabout where my last foster family lived. I think I'd know it if I saw it."

Another thing they're not supposed to talk about.

"Big place," Hopper says. "You gonna need a hand poking around?"

Dex meets his eyes, and finally his gloomy expression dissipates. "Yeah," he says, "I reckon I will. You know the area at all?"

"Not a bit," says H. "Never lived in a city in my life. My folks were Amish." He feels a little thrill as he says it, the tremor of strangeness between breaking the iron-hard taboo about mentioning family and the offhand tone in which it comes out.

D blinks, startled. "No shit. The ones who don't use electricity?"

"We used generators for some stuff. Just not on the grid. Keep to themselves."

"Huh," Dex muses, "kinda like the House, really." And then he chuckles a little. "And now you probably the best electrical engineer on the planet."

"Go figure," says Hopper, and for some reason it's hilarious and they laugh themselves silly for nearly five minutes straight, and when they finally stop, gasping and wiping tears from their eyes, they both feel a lot lighter and Outside doesn't seem quite as bad as it did when they got here.

"It prob'ly Cuthbert," Hopper says as they're walking back home through the murky drizzle. "Always thought you look like a Cuthbert."

"Do _not_," Dex laughs, giving his friend a shove toward the ditch.

"Or Bartholomew, maybe."

"Shut it, Hop."

* * *

**AN: All the places mentioned in this chapter are actually real...thank you, Google Street View. I literally took a virtual walk around the edges of Winchester looking for a plausible area for this scene to take place. It was Pretty Darn Nifty.**


	43. Perch

**AN: I'm up to Rom over on the Letter Banner series...go check it out!**

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43. Perch

When Solar was a little girl—well, littler than she is now—her most prized possession was a picture book given to her by the Red Cross people. The corners were worn and there was a small tear on page three, but it had pretty pictures in bright greens and blues and yellows, and she would read it over and over and over because it was the only book she had. After a while a volunteer noticed that the three-year-old actually was, in fact, _reading_ the book, and not just the story but the author's biographical paragraph and the publishing information, and brought her some of his own books.

Even when she had the selection of paperback adventures the Red Cross man lent her, the picture book was her favorite. It was about a little white girl with blonde pigtails and a little white boy in a green hat whose daddy built them a tree house.

Solar did not have a tree house, nor a daddy, but she liked pretending as much as she liked reading, so she would climb trees instead with her book and nestle in a fork and read it over and over until it was memorized and still read the words anyway. And then the Red Cross man brought Mr. W to meet her, and he said she could have all the books she wanted.

And he wasn't lying. Solar doesn't read the tree house book very often anymore; there are far too many other fascinating books to get through, and she only has 100 years _tops _to read as many as possible. A small, quiet part of her has considered asking if they could build a tree house, but she has learned that she's getting on just fine without a daddy and so she can get on just fine without a tree house too. Still, she likes to climb the trees in the yard and read, and even write her own books. It's a nice place to be away from the chaos of the House and relax into her own thoughts.

Usually, anyway. Today it's not so great.

"Hey! Solar! Come play GlassWorld with us!"

Solar glances down through the rustling leaves at her friends on the ground. Raphael and Paolo are practically hopping with anticipation, and Ochre is trailing to catch up, pouty lips set in a frown and arms crossed over her chest.

"I don' feel like it," she says, turning back to her notebook and pretending to be engrossed in writing.

"Whaaat? You were all excited to play _yesterday_!" Raphael accuses incredulously. "Now Matt finally promise us a good long turn and you gonna pass up so you can sit in a stupid tree and write? You been up there since lunch!"

Solar shifts a little. It's true—she's been up here for almost two hours now, and between the heat and the stream of ants she discovered crawling on this branch, it's extremely uncomfortable. "Maybe later."

"We don' got later, we got now," Paolo protests. "He not gonna let us have it all day."

"Get Train to play with you."

"But he always win!"

"Come on," Ochre mutters, "let's just go. She don' wanna play, she not gonna play. Sittin' here arguing is boring."

"Well—fine," says R, then shouts up at her as they turn to go back into the cool shade of the House, "but you being lame!"

Solar scowls, flicking a few ants off her branch in frustration. She really, really was looking forward to playing GlassWorld, the eerie, surreal puzzle-quest that Matt designed and Aris rendered for the science fair this summer—it's been a huge hit with all the kids, and it's almost impossible to get a turn to play, especially being the littlest at the House. But—well—she's a bit…preoccupied at the moment.

When she's positive no one is looking anymore, she sticks her green notebook in the back waistband of her jeans again and makes another attempt. Clinging to the branch beside hers and leaning forward precariously, she stretches one foot down as far as it will go. It's a good several handspans shy of the next branch down. Solar can picture, in her mind, how it would work: slip off of the branch, let her feet land on the lower limb, steady herself against the trunk of the tree. Unfortunately, she can also picture her feet slipping, or not landing square, can imagine herself falling and landing on the ground, a good four yards down. Four yards is a pretty big deal when you're only about four feet tall yourself.

It seems impossible in retrospect that she even got up here in the first place—it sure didn't look this high from down there! She's been trying to reach this stupid limb for ages and now that she's finally up here, she's already heartily sick of it.

She'll just try again later, S tells herself, easing back up onto the branch and shaking off the adrenaline. It's not that big of a deal, she just…doesn't feel like coming down right now. Maybe she feels like writing for a little bit longer instead. Perhaps she ought to think of it as fate encouraging her to work on her book.

"Solar! You _still_ birdin' around up there?"

Paolo and Ochre are back, peering up at her quizzically through the interlaced branches. It's been an atypically hot afternoon, her butt hurts from sitting on this stupid branch, and her mouth is parched. All of that combined with the annoyance of her current predicament are making her cranky.

"Not _birding around_. I writing my book," she says a little snippily, scribbling in her notebook: _I hate this stupid tree. I hope it gets some horrible blight and all its leaves fall off._

"You stuck up there, huh?" Ochre sighs.

"You need some help gettin' down?" asks Paolo helpfully.

"I not _stuck_," Solar says, shifting to find a more comfortable position. "I just don' feel like comin' down yet."

Ochre sighs again, and manages to make it sound like a monumental effort. "I'll go get Wiley," she says dully.

"Not necessary."

"It'll be ok, Essie, Dubs can getcha down," says Paolo.

Solar twists her pen in her hands for a moment, then calls out in desperation when she sees Ochre turning to go fetch the older girl as promised, "Wait, no! She'll tell Crash and Echo and I'll never hear the end of it!"

"So you admit you stuck at least," P teases, as O releases a yet _more _aggravated sigh.

"Well, who 'round here that _also_ freakishly tall that you _would_ be ok with?"

"Jitter and Gao are back," suggests Paolo. "J might help."

"Yeah, and big G even worse than C and E! No way," snaps Solar from her perch.

"What about Jeremy or Gavin?"

"_No_. If any of the brass monkeys find out they won't let me climb up here anymore."

"That sound like a bonus to me," Ochre drones after some consideration. "I be right back."

"Can't you just get a ladder instead?" Solar says pleadingly.

"Gavin can get a ladder. You think _I_ gonna climb up there and help you down it?"

"I could," Paolo volunteers.

Ochre stares at him flatly for a slow five counts. "No."

Despite the unpleasantness of the alternatives, Solar has to agree. He's eager to help, but as a general rule P and his eager helpfulness are more of a hindrance than a help. On the other hand, that doesn't make her _more _amenable to the alternatives.

"Maybe you guys could just pile some pillows and stuff down there and I just jump," she suggests.

"Hey, yeah! How 'bout that?" Paolo says, turning excitedly to Ochre, who gives the barest roll of her eyes and starts back toward the House.

"I'm gettin' Gavin now."

"_Ochre_! Get back here!" Steadfastly ignoring her, the other girl continues to trudge away. "_Okie_!"

Paolo blinks up at her owlishly. "Oh…you know she don' like it when you call her that, _da_?"

"I know that. I tryin'a make her mad so she come back," Solar explains with fraying patience to the boy. It's not working, though, and she didn't really expect it would. O's tiny form is already marching purposefully up the front steps, and she marches right inside without pausing for even an instant. Darnit.

"Ok, P, hurry," Solar urges. "Go get something for me to jump down on before they come back!"

"Eh…I don' know, Essie…I don' think I could go and come back fast enough before she find someone…don' think that physically possible." He plucks at his lip thoughtfully, and Solar resists the urge to throw her notebook at his head. "Hey! I could prolly catch you though, _hao ba_?" The stringy boy stretches out his arms encouragingly. "Come on, I can break you fall."

"_Bu hao a!_ No way! I don't—argh!" It's too late. Ochre is already coming back, leading not Gavin or Jeremy or even Wiley or Jitter, but Hopkins.

"I'm doomed forever," Solar moans.

"At least you gonna be outta the tree," P says helpfully.


	44. Calling

44. Calling

Nina almost walks right into the infirmary, but stops short when she sees Karter.

It's not that it's Karter, of course—he gets out of class earlier than she does on Tuesday afternoons, so she expected he'd be here with Lo. It's what he's doing that makes her pause.

Lazlo is still bound up in the rolly-wrap, and appears to be asleep. Or, more likely, he's been sedated. His cinnamon face somehow manages to look wan even against the white pillowcase.

Karter has pulled up a chair close to the bed. Elbows planted on the edge of the mattress and forehead pressed to his knotted hands, he's got his eyes closed and his mouth is moving, as though he's speaking silently to someone Nina can't see. Peeking around the edge of the doorway, she watches, nonplussed. For a whole ninety seconds (which is a _long_ time for K to sit completely still of his own accord, and who knows how long he's been at it?) he does this, while Lo sleeps and N looks on and wonders what on earth her friend is doing. Is Karter having a breakdown too? He certainly looks like he's taken a step deeper into crazy, muttering to himself like that.

It suddenly snaps into place as a memory comes back to her, fragmented and elusive, of the red-and-white circle pattern of her mother's dress that she liked to trace with her fingers and the falling cadence of her mother's scratchy voice murmuring something-something-something _gr__á__tia pl__é__na, _something-something-something _gr__á__tia pl__é__na._

Finally he finishes, opening his eyes and sighing to himself, reflexively checking his watches before settling back in the chair, and Nina silently resolves just as abruptly as she realized who Karter must be talking to that she's not going to bring it up, because it's private and personal and none of her business no matter how curious she is.

Her brain and her tongue are pretty much never in agreement over what is actually going to be blurted out, though, so when K sees her and says, "Hey, Nina," and she opens her mouth to say something along the lines of, "Hey, I stopped by you room and got you homework," the exact words she decided _not_ to say pop out instead.

"Were you _praying _just now?"

Karter's eyes go round as coins, cheeks heating, but then he braces his shoulders. "Yeah," he says a little defensively. "I was."

"Sorry," Nina says immediately, jerking her incredulous gaze away and addressing the corner of Lazlo's bed. "I, you know I didn't—I mean, I wasn't—it's not my—"

"It ok," he interrupts. "It not like it really…." Laughing awkwardly, he fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, rolling his wrist over to check the time again. "Thought maybe he need all the help we can get him. Don't know if it work or not. Can't hurt, _da_?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess," Nina mumbles, and really, she thinks, he's got a point and she feels like a twit now. Jerkily, she thrusts Karter's calculus book at him. "Here."

"Thanks," K says, accepting it with a sigh and regarding the obnoxiously cheerful cover wearily. Even his wild curly hair seems a little wilted, and N wonders if he's been sleeping and before she can tamp the thought down

"Gotta rest more, K. Else you gonna crack."

Wincing, Nina curses herself silently. As if there was anything worse she could say with Lazlo right here, sedated and with his mouth packed to protect his shredded gums.

Karter and Lo both are used to her tendency to blurt out the first thing on her mind, though, and it's not like every other student in this place hasn't thought the same thing at least once a week, if not every day. Smiling, with effort at first, he drops the book to the floor with a _thunk_ and lounges back in the chair, propping his feet on the bedframe. "Ditto."

Nina ends up setting her own books down too, pulling up a chair and folding her feet up under herself. "How he doing?"

"Twitch he finger 'bout an hour back. Most exciting part of he afternoon," Karter replies with a lopsided smile that doesn't quite dispel the anxiety in his eyes.

"Glad to hear he keepin' busy," N says, attempting to mirror his light-hearted tone.

K's right. It's slow time, keeping vigil over Lazlo, who stirs occasionally but shows no sign of waking. The textbooks on the floor nag at her attention. It's only Tuesday but everyone else is already studying for Friday quizzes. Ten minutes in Nina glances down at them at the same moment that Karter checks his watch, and they exchange a guilty glance.

She kicks the books under the Lazlo's bed while he peels off his watches and shoves them into his pocket.

"I don't think I ever seen you with those off," her mouth says before taking the time to run it by her brain first.

Karter shrugs, rubbing his clammy white wrist uncomfortably. The outline of each watch is clearly visible. "Well. Been a few years."

Then they settle in to wait some more.

It's not like this is unusual. Students have breakdowns all the time. Just months ago K broke down in hysterical tears during final exams because the grandfather clock in the common room was four seconds off. That same term Nina herself had to be coaxed and eventually pried out of bed and carried down to lunch by the matron after a day and a half of refusing to get out from under the covers, she was so depressed about her midterm composition project score. This was a lot scarier than those two instances, though: the fixed way Lazlo stared at the mirror, robotically brushing and brushing and brushing while the toothpaste foamed up pink and red.

Waiting is hard. She feels like they ought to be doing something, formulating plans and working out steps. There are no plans to make, though, and no steps to follow. Just waiting, and even that really does Lazlo little or no good.

"He really did do awful on that test," N murmurs to herself a while later.

It's not a criticism. They all have their own particular skills, and statistics just happens to not be Lazlo's, despite all the time K spent trying to work through the practice problems with him. It's when a student starts freaking out over an A- that the brass start to worry and the rumors about scrubbing start to ripple through the wires. Getting like this over a D+ is understandable, even expected.

"I'm scared for him."

Karter's eyes crack open, and he nods in agreement. She would have thought he was asleep if it weren't for the way his knee is jittering. It's getting late. Nina got up before dawn this morning and crashed after midnight last night, and she's pillowed her head on her arms at the edge of the bed. She may have dozed off but isn't sure.

It doesn't mean anything bad necessarily but she thought Lo would wake up by now.

"Maybe we could—you know—help some more," she says tentatively, knotting her fingers together uncertainly.

For a fleeting moment K looks helpless and frustrated, but then he nods decisively. "Might as well."

Nina can't remember if she's ever prayed before and the idea of it makes her feel small, like she's blind and deaf and calling out on a roadside in the rather flimsy hope that some stranger might be passing by. Following Karter's lead, she interlaces her hands and closes her eyes. She doesn't know any prayers, so she just tries to think loudly.

_I don't know if anything is out there listening, but my friend might be in trouble…._

_

* * *

_**The prayer Nina remembers her mother speaking is the Hail Mary-in Spanish, of course.**_  
_


	45. Astronauts

**AN: mrrrrgh...not really sure i illustrated quite what i wanted to with this chapter but meh. MEH. **

* * *

45. Astronauts

"_No_!" Mello screams, and man, that kid has a pair of lungs. Stella didn't really agree at first with Marta putting the two new children in a separate hall from the rest of the students' dormitories, but after a few weeks, it's pretty obvious why it was done. All the older students pretty well go to bed to either sleep or study in their rooms without having to be told; they're tired, or busy, or else have the sense to keep down the volume if they are wandering to visit each other. Even despite the walls and rooms in between, she wouldn't be surprised if little M has managed to wake some or all of them up with all this shouting and running around.

The aides have all become a little complacent, perhaps—they haven't had to deal with a child this skittish since Fallon was his age. He bit Moira the other day, Stella heard. She knows Mello is only exhausted and scared, just woken from a nightmare and still not used to his new home, but it is still difficult not to get impatient with him when he screams like that.

"If you're not sleepy, you can pick out some of the toys in here and take them back to your room to play with," the young woman suggests, carefully neutral. Like facing a bear cub: soft voice, slow movements, so not to spook it.

"No! Go away!"

"Mello, I'm right here. You don't need to yell," Stella says quietly. "What _would_ you like to do?"

"Nothing! Jus' leave me 'lone!"

She can't just leave Mello unsupervised in the common room in the middle of the night, of course. To be honest, Stella is not entirely sure what to do. The child has wedged himself behind the couch and refuses to come out, and to pull him out would obviously go against their instructions to avoid touching him if at all possible.

"Come on, Mello," she starts gently, though she's not entirely sure where she's going to go from there, other than possibly bribing him with candy, and then Ma Marta is bustling in with her hair unbound and her housecoat on and a rather cross look on her tired face. Clearly Mello has woken one person up, if not the entire House.

"Sorry," Stella apologizes, but the matron cuts her off, saying, "Look, _zis_ how you deal with zis one."

"I heard that! You can't make me come out!"

"I am not here to make you do anysing. I need your help. Your leetle friend is haffing trouble sleeping again."

There's a tense pause, then Mello's red-rimmed blue eyes peek at them suspiciously over the back of the couch. "…Near can't sleep again?"

"Zat's right. Maybe if you come play with him a leetle bit he will become tired."

"Near needs me?"

"Yes, he vas asking for you."

There's that long moment, then, that Stella has come to recognize, and that sets the kids here apart from every child she has ever met Outside: Mello considers, eyeing them and clearly weighing the likelihood of the matron's claims against what he knows of Near and what he knows of Marta and how far he thinks they would stretch the truth to coax him out.

And there are no lies here to detect, actually. The quiet toddler has only slept through the night a handful of times in the weeks since they arrived. So far they've been handling it by letting him stay up with an aide and watch tv, because no matter how many times they put him to bed he crawls out and huddles against his door in a forlorn little ball until someone comes to get him. Near is too young to take sleeping medication but Stella thinks they're going to have to start sedating him if it keeps up. And as for his asking for Mello—well, pretty much all he _ever_ asks for is toys or Mello.

"Ok," Mello finally says, and Stella can't help but cheer a little inside. It's good to see that he's coming to trust them a little at least.

"Is he in the game room again?" she asks Marta as the little boy warily creeps out of his hidey-hole, and the Matron nods in affirmation.

"Jerzy is watching him. He still just wants to watch zat same video, over and over again."

"Hm. Well, that's not surprising." While she's grateful to have the perfect method of calming Mello down handed to her, having to sit through the space launch documentary for the twenty-sixth time cancels out a hefty percentage of her gratitude.

"Alrighty then," Stella says, keeping the resignation out of her voice. "Hear that, Mello? Let's go find Near and Jerzy."

"I can go by myself!"

Which could very well be true, but isn't the point. Students aren't supposed to roam alone at night. Gao, protesting the same rule when not much older than Mello, had once snappily pointed out to her, "Look here, lady, I live on de street of Beijing for year by mysel'. I tink I can get water from kitchen by mysel'!" Not so many months ago, though, Alt and Backup gave them a pretty good reason to continue to enforce the rule.

And anyway, it probably protects the safety of everyone else more than the child doing the roaming.

"Come now, Mello, perhaps Stella vill vant to go vatch the movie with you as vell."

"No, I don't want her! I want to play with Near, not her!"

In the end, he runs on ahead as Stella and Marta follow after, making sure to shoot several dirty looks back at them.

"Near!" he shouts, barging into the game room.

"Well, hello," says Jerzy, blinking hard. The aide is lounging on one end of the sofa, looking as though he's ready to disintegrate into a moldering pile of boredom (Stella can't blame him, he's probably watching that wretched documentary for the fourth consecutive time tonight) and Near is on the other end as far away as possible, perched on the very edge with one foot hanging down and a sipper cup clutched in his tiny hands. In stark contrast to poor Jerzy's glazed stupor, the child is staring wide-eyed at the TV like it's the most mesmerizing thing he's ever seen. His face tilts slightly at the other boy's shout.

"Mo?"

"What're you watching?" Mello demands, flinging himself onto the couch and nearly making the smaller boy drop his milk.

"He vill be fine now," Marta says, giving Stella a pat on the shoulder and turning around. "He vill be quiet. Finally."

"Sorry," Stella calls after the matron as she heads back to bed, then goes to join Jerzy on the sofa. Mello gives her a nasty look, grabbing Near by the arm and hopping off the sofa again, dragging his friend along with him.

"Come on, Near. Let's go sit closer."

"Mk," hums Near agreeably, shuffling after him and plonking himself down on the floor where Mello stops him.

"How's his foot?" Stella murmurs to Jerzy, as Mello proceeds to interrogate Near about the video.

The other aide rubs at his eyes a little, blinking himself awake. "Seems pretty good. Still favors it a little but it doesn't seem to be hurting him. Why's that one not in bed?"

"Nightmares."

"Ah."

"This movie is boring," Mello announces (Stella privately agrees). "Let's play a game instead."

"What game?" says Near, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"We're going to play Astronauts! You and me are the astronauts."

"Wiv a shuttle?"

"Yep, we have big space shuttle like that." Mello points at the TV, where a space shuttle is indeed taking off in a flurry of smoke and flame. "And we're going to fight the aliens!"

Near considers. "Why we fight the a-leens?"

"Because we're competing for the same natural resources," Mello explains. "They have the fuel we need for the shuttle. And they're mean and ugly, and they eat people!"

Another long moment of consideration. "I don't want to be eated."

"Don't worry, stupid, I'm not going to let them eat _you_," says Mello impatiently. "We're going to blow all their heads off first. Come on!"

"Do you think he'll notice if we put some other video on?" Stella whispers as the two kids rifle through the toy bins along the wall looking for supplies and weapons and bouncy balls, which Near has solemnly pointed out are alien eggs and must all be destroyed to prevent further propagation of the enemy.

"I have a feeling we won't have a chance to," Jerzy says just as Mello (now with a bucket on his head and an empty water gun in each hand) points at the two aides and yells, "Ready Near? Let's get the aliens!"


	46. Outing

46. Outing

"Alright, guys, count off! Over, where'd you go? Start us off, will you?" Addison calls out.

"O!"

"P."

"Q."

"R!"

"S…."

There's a pause, and it's not for T because Traction wasn't around long enough to ever have to do a count off. Hanging her head so her bangs fall in front of her eyes and she doesn't have to see everyone staring around for her, Una gives Addison's parka sleeve a small tug.

"We'll take that as a U. Keep going, guys…."

"V!"

"W."

"Y."

"Z."

"A…."

It's wet and it's loud and it's horrible and Una hates it all. Well, ok, hate is a strong word, and she doesn't much care for strong words. She dislikes it. She doesn't _particularly_ like it. It stopped drizzling before they got off the charter bus, at least, but London is all rainslick concrete and car horns and streams of people in wet-shiny jackets, and Una finds it all quite overwhelming and unpleasant. Even the hour-and-a-half on the bus, packed with kids ranging from loudly excited to go Outside to loudly denying they're petrified to be Outside, was better than this.

"…S."

"T!"

"Alright, that's everyone. Everybody listening? Good. Now remember, we're going to go on a tour with one of the museum guides. I want you to be on your _best_ behavior—we're here to learn, not show off. Wisdom means knowing how to use your intelligence, so let's not be a bunch of stupid geniuses. We're going to be respectful of both people and of museum property. Take the signs seriously and don't pick on the guide or you won't be coming on the next trip, understand?" The librarian throws a sharp look at Rom and Over.

"Yes, Addison," comes back the ragged chorus.

"After the tour we'll break into our buddy groups and you can look around the museum. Everyone remember who your leader is?" Murmurs of confirmation, and some kids point to their aide leaders. "Excellent. After that we'll go to a restaurant for lunch. Is everyone clear on the plan?"

Another reply of agreement, this one significantly more enthusiastic at the mention of wandering the Science Museum without a tour guide and of food.

"Excellent. Well let's get inside, then, before it starts raining again."

"_Wa sai_!" Geia whispers to her, staring around. Una can't possibly imagine a place that is less Houselike, with the slick glass and blue lights and sharp stairs and walkways everywhere and echoes of conversation—and the people. There are so many different _kinds_ of people milling through the Science Museum entry hall as they file in through the glass doors—all different colors and shapes, like at the House, but also all different ages, from babies to children to teens to adults to an old woman with a wheelchair and a thin cloud of white curls, who is easily the oldest person U has seen in person since last year's field trips. True, Roger and Hopkins are super old, but they're not ancient like _that_. G goggles unabashedly when Una nudges her arm and points to a man holding a little girl's hand and a woman with a stroller next to him. "So _weird_…."

It's more than she can deal with. Looping her arm in Geia's, she keeps her head down and her eyes on Aris's shoes. The other girl has strung one of her hand-fired glass beads on the shoelace of each one, bright orange with flecks of gold, and bright against the practically unworn white sneakers. Without much effort Una sinks into that little ball of fire, shutting out the surf and pull and flow of people around their little group.

She's not sure how Outside has become such a surreal place to her. Perhaps it's because the Outside where she grew up was so different from London and Winchester and probably all of England, as far as she knows. There's no gunfire rat-tat-tatting randomly in the strangely rainy streets, there are free water fountains everywhere, everyone is in a hurry but no one is scared. It's not the Outside she remembers and it's not the House, and those are the only places she's familiar with. London seems more like an odd fantasy cooked up by idiots with more imagination than common sense than a real place. She's sort of interested in seeing the displays here, but she sort of wants to go home.

"Uh oh," Sember murmurs on her other side, and Una looks up through her hair.

Addison has that frowny-line between his eyes, and he's talking to an Outsider with a nametag in that low but firm voice that he uses when he's about two steps away from kicking someone out of his library.

"Come on," Geia whispers, edging them closer. They're not the only ones—except for Paran and Qarri and a few of the other older kids, who are making an effort to look bored and aloof, all of the House students are gathering subtly around to eavesdrop.

"—what was indicated," Addison is saying. "I was under the clear impression that this would be a _private_ tour group."

"Well, it isn't a _public_ tour group," says the unLettered man apologetically. "Scheduling was tight this week, so we've put you together with another school group. We didn't think anyone would object—"

Addison brushes off his excuses with a long hand, and it suddenly strikes Una how very tall the librarian is. Of course, he's taller than everyone at the House, but they're a bunch of kids. Maybe Outsiders are just shorter than she remembers. "Can't you reschedule them? Surely there can be some rearrangement. We made this appointment six months ago with the understanding that certain accommodations could be made."

The students are getting riled up by this point, and Una feels a sick little chill. Having to listen to some wormbait blather through his notecards about the museum is unpleasant enough, but to have to endure it with a bunch of unLettered _kids_ too?

Ew.

Sometimes at the House they watch "kiddie" shows on the TV, for a joke. Wormbait kids are…well, Una doesn't want to be judgmental. But they certainly seem to get caught up in things that are not too important or interesting. From the way TV makes it look, it's the kids who think more about their studies than their looks that are the weak ones, and the ones with power in the social structure are the ones who wear certain clothes or have the most overdone hair, even though they're morons. That makes no sense at all. UnLettered people make no sense at all.

Her silent sentiment is echoed in whispers and disgusted sideways glances exchanged through their little cluster, but is by no means the only one. Crash and Echo look as though New Year's is coming twice this year, and Jordan grins evilly and actually starts to say out loud, "Well _this_ could be a lotta f—" before Faris stomps inconspicuously down on his foot.

Apparently no accommodation can be made. Frowning like a thunderhead, Addison herds the lot of them over to a relatively out-of-the-way corner of the lobby.

"Alright, guys. I know you all heard the man," the librarian says, with a touch of his usual wryness. "We're going to be joined on our tour by some students from…from another school."

"Wormbaits," and "Outsiders," the whispers ripple through the group, and Addison glares furiously. "All of you listen to me," he says in a low voice, and they gather closer to hear him. "I don't have to tell you these kids are not like you. Everything I said before applies doubly. And before you go thinking you're going to be clever and just bait them a little bit, think about this. Would Mr. W be proud if he could see his students picking on kids that are less clever than them?"

It's been less than a year since his death. The lecture has exactly the effect intended. Even R and O look sobered.

"That's what I thought. Keep that in mind. Don't tease them, don't bait them—just stick together and listen to the tour guide, alright?"

"Yes, Addison," is the muted (and somewhat grudging) reply.

Well, so, that's that. They're going on a tour with some Outsider kids. Una doesn't much know what to make of that, so she decides to pretend it isn't happening.

This proves to be more difficult than usual. U doesn't exactly blame Jordan, though he certainly has a hand in it. She had no problem at all wrapping herself in her own little world of reading vaguely interesting display plaques and tuning out the tour guide and following wherever G led before he started talking.

"Jus' talkin' to 'em not baitin', _da_?" he whispers to Faris right behind her and Geia. Of course, Jordan's whispering is something along the lines of a normal person's slightly raised voice. The tour guide forges on over him, Addison raises his brows and makes his volume-dial gesture, and there's that familiar clomp of F's foot digging into J's.

Now that she's present again, Una notices the unLettered kids for the first time. They're all wearing the exact same outfit, which is a little bit creepy, and more of them seem to be watching the House kids than are listening to the tour guide. She dislikes having eyes on her, and U wonders if they really stand out that badly or if these kids are just really rude, or really bored. It's true that the tour is a little dull—they keep passing by all the interesting-looking displays. In either case, those kids are definitely staring. For some reason Karter is getting a lot of odd looks, which is clearly unnerving him, as he keeps fiddling with the straps of his watches, and so is Quinn, who is ogling right back and keeps reaching for the camera that Addison made her leave on the bus. Una's starting to feel self-conscious on their behalf, and hides behind Geia whenever they're standing still for any length of time.

"Hey. Hey you."

"Bad idea, J," Faris breathes almost silently.

It's too late. Jordan has managed to get the attention of a sandy-haired unLettered boy who's been one of the worst with the staring. They're walking down a long hallway with Addison up ahead of them, and J has worked his way over to fall into step with the stranger just in front of Una and Geia.

"Hi," says Sandy-Hair, giving Jordan an appraising up-and-down look. "What school are you guys from, anyway?"

"It's just a summer camp," J lies glibly. "So what letter—um, what do people call you?"

Sandy-Hair gives him a strange look. "…My name's Jaime. You?"

"Jordan! Hey, that mean we both J! See that F, they not so bad." He elbows Faris in the shoulder, and the other boy shrugs uncomfortably. Una can see that he's probably dying to give J a hefty kick in the ankle, but doesn't want to make a scene.

Meanwhile Jaime is exchanging that same strange look with the kid next to him. "Right…so what's up with the weird watch kid?"

Through their linked arms, Una can feel G tensing.

"Huh?" Jordan looks around in genuine confusion. "Watch kid?"

The two unLettered boys snicker a little. "How could you miss him? He's got three watches on. Is he trying to be cool or what?"

"We never asked. He just wears them," Geia interrupts before J can open his mouth.

"Sounds like a freak," Jaime's friend mutters.

"Who's he calling a freak?" Nina says suddenly, turning around in front of J and F.

"No one, Nina," G says, as Lazlo, who's apparently also been eavesdropping on the little exchange, grabs N's arm and forces her to keep walking. "_Ignorarlos_, N_. Solo son unos lombrices_."

"Hey, what did you call us?" demands Jaime.

"Look guys, they have an exhibit on sciences in the 18th century," Sember interjects in an unnaturally loud tone, making an obvious attempt to distract them. "We should go take a look in groups later and get ideas for the Renaissance science fair."

That actually does sound pretty interesting, and might have worked if it weren't for Jaime muttering to his friend, "Oh my God, they're all a bunch of freaks and nerds. Probably from one of those 'special' camps—"

"We're not _freaks_!" Nina whirls around, shaking off Lo's hand and glaring fiercely. Not expecting her to stop so suddenly, Jordan and Faris run right into them, and then Geia and Una stumble into _them, _bringing half the tour group to a confused halt.

"What on earth is going on back here?" Addison's voice is half-angry and half-worried as he and one of the unLettered chaperones, a middle-aged woman with a ponytail, make their way to the knot.

"Well, I wasn't baitin' him, Addy!" Jordan says immediately, but Nina interrupts, her cheeks pink and chest swelled with indignation.

"We were all listening, Addison—J was just trying to engage in a perfectly civil discourse with this unLe—this kid from the Out—from the other school, and _he _started making completely unprovoked slanderous diatribes about some of _our _kids," she states, pointing accusingly at Jaime like a lawyer before the judge.

"I did _what_?" says the Outsider kid, and the Outsider chaperone is giving N an odd look.

"I'm sure there was no harm intended," Addison says.

"Well—that kid was calling us names in French or something!" pipes up Jaime's friend, pointing at Lazlo.

"It was Spanish, actually," Lazlo says, staring back at his accuser with flat dislike.

"Same difference—"

"That's enough, now, Henry," starts the chaperone tentatively.

"This argument is over. If you all need to be separated, that can be arranged," says Addison firmly. Glancing over the House kids, he goes on, "Don't forget what we talked about earlier. Keep moving, guys, we're holding up the tour."

"Yes, Addison," they grumble, and begin to follow after the librarian. From the corner of her eye, Una sees Jaime pulling a face at them.

"Freaks."

"Don't call names, Jaime," says the chaperone, looking a little cross. Una wonders with a hint of smugness if she's jealous of the way Addison so easily took control of the situation. "Kira's going to get you if you don't behave."

"_Really_, lady?" Lazlo and Faris both make to clap their hands over Nina's mouth, but she brushes them off and actually starts heading back toward the Outsiders. "No wonder they're such a bunch of screw-ups, with someone like you tellin' them _lese_ like that! How misguided you gotta be to use the worst mass murderer the world ever seen as a cheap threat? Who you gonna sic on him next, Hitler? What kinda—"

Oh, oh dear. This is not good, even actually bad, even actually terrible, Una can see, and she clings to Geia in a frail attempt to hold her back as she starts back toward the stupid lady too. Nina's shouting has fired up Jordan again, and the others are starting to pay attention, and it's the shy ones holding back the confrontational ones though they're all incensed that this Outsider would dare use the name of L and Mr. W's killer in such a shallow, inconsequential way.

It all gets sorted out eventually. Between Addison, all of the aides, all of the unLettered chaperones, and a few museum security personnel, it gets sorted out.

After that the museum people are suddenly able to make accommodations for them to go on a private tour in the afternoon. It's funny how these things work, Una thinks, and goes back to pretending the Outsiders aren't there.

* * *

**Translations**

_Wa sai - _Chinese: Cool!/Wow!_  
_

_Ignorarlos_, N_. Solo son lombrices. – _Spanish: Ignore them. They're just worms.

_lese – _Chinese: trash.


	47. Grudge

47. Grudge

Making friends has never been a skill of hers, though Isabel has tried—she's tried _so_ hard to make people like her. The foster brothers and sisters at her last home couldn't stand her (whatever, she didn't like them either, the stuck-up rats), and the same at the one before that, and the one before that. This place seems different than all of those places, though, and she's determined to make a fresh start, no matter what she has to do. And the sleepy girl with the frizzy hair seems as good a start as any. One person alone is always an easier and less threatening target than a crowd.

The new girl has no way of knowing Qarri is probably the worst target in the room right now. She was up until three in the morning working on a program that would simply not compile, no matter what she did. Driven to exhausted desperation, she'd finally consulted Echo, who didn't really know the program but at least had a fresh set of eyes. Only after she'd promised E an extra month of listening in on her bugs did she finally realize that she had misspelled a function name in a critical line of code. Tired and irritated, she'd dragged herself down to breakfast to discover that it was porridge day. Qarri despises porridge almost as much as she hates giving away free favors and losing sleep. A pop quiz in her literature class and getting scolded for falling asleep in the middle of calculus did not exactly improve things, and then as if all that weren't enough, it's green beans with lunch today, and hang it all if she doesn't detest green beans even more than porridge.

Echo has been decent enough to warn the other students, who studiously avoid the table where Q is glowering at her plate in a way that suggests she is making an earnest attempt to set it on fire with the power of her mind.

However, Isabel just arrived—literally just got moved in last night, and hasn't even started classes yet. She doesn't know not to bother Qarri when she's in this mood, and nobody thought to tell her. All she knows is that she doesn't know anyone and there's a girl about her age sitting by herself at the last table in the dining hall. So she plunks her own plate right down across from her and pins a big, friendly smile to her face.

"Hi!"

Isabel's smile falters a little as the other girl looks up from her green beans with an expression caught somewhere between _What the hell sort of backward planet do YOU come from? _and _Just because my plate isn't catching fire doesn't mean it won't work on your face._

"My name's Isabel," she forges on, stretching her fake smile a little wider in hopes that it will impress her goodwill upon this odd girl, and she'll stop scowling like that. "What's yours?

At that, the other girl's black brows twitch up into a disdainful arch. "_Letter_," she grunts.

"…I beg your pardon?" She has heard one or two aliases already that don't sound like regular names, it's true—'Gao' she concedes sounds sort of foreign, and might be normal in like, Asia or something, but come on, 'Over' and 'Near'? What kind of weirdo has a preposition for a name? All the same, 'Letter' seems like an even dumber name.

"This the House, fishie. You don' got a _name_ no more. Got a _letter._ I for Isabel."

"Well—that's still a name," Isabel retorts, a little stung. "Just because we use the initials too doesn't mean 'Isabel' isn't a name. That's completely superficial nomenclature."

Now the other girl is looking at her with a very familiar expression, one that says, _I don't think I like you very much. _So Isabel quickly backtracks, "Whatever though. So what's your letter, then?"

"Q for Qarri."

"Well wait a minute. How does _that_ work?" Now it's Isabel's eyebrows that jump disdainfully. "Carrie starts with a C, not a _Q_."

And dammit, she's doing it again. Now with an expression of pronounced annoyance, Q for Qarri dismisses her and turns her attention back to her plate, muttering something under her breath that isn't quite audible but sure doesn't sound like, "Good point! Let's be best friends anyway!"

Picking at her beans awkwardly, Isabel goes for another tack. "So…Q, huh? Guess that means you've been here for a while."

Qarri makes a sound that could be an affirmative.

"Do you like it here?"

"What not to like?" Q asks aggressively, as though Isabel is suggesting there _is_ something.

"I didn't mean it like that, I just figured it must have been hard to get used to," Isabel retorts.

"And why would _that_ be?"

It's the same as it always is. For some reason, even though Isabel is clearly aware that she's digging herself into a hole, she has to just keep digging. "Well—I mean you're obviously not a native English speaker—"

"_DUI A_?" Slanted eyes wide and livid, Qarri throws her fork down to her plate. "Ok, listen up, _blakaba_ fishie. You obvo don' know ten beans about how thing work 'round here. No names! No talkin' 'bout the Outside, or Before the House! You not some unLettered wormbait no more, so stop actin' like one! And for you information, I learn English _before_ Mr. W chose me!"

"Are you girls getting along here?" interjects a young man, drawn from the table he's monitoring by Qarri's shouting.

"Yeah, just peachy, Jeremy," Q mutters, still glaring daggers at Isabel.

"I'm glad to hear it," the aide says, and goes on pointedly, "don't forget Isabel is new to the House, Qarri, and could use a hand settling in for the next few days. Maybe you can show her the ropes."

"Sound great," she says flatly. Isabel agrees more with her tone of skeptical distaste than with her actual words. This Qarri seems like just as much of a stuck-up brat as her old foster siblings. She thinks she's so great, just because she's been here at this House for a while? Well, Isabel was chosen by Mr. W too, so there.

"Great. Now be nice," says Jeremy, and hurries on to the next table, where a pair of boys are using their spoons as catapults to sling grapes at each other.

"Hnn. You been oriented yet, fi—Isabel?" Qarri says, sounding rather as though the words are being pried from her about as willingly as if it were her teeth being pulled out.

"If you mean a couple kids sneaking into my room in the middle of the night and telling me how weird this place is, then yeah," Isabel says coolly. Q clearly doesn't like her, so she's decided she doesn't much like her either. So _there_.

Q's eye actually twitches a little, something Isabel has read about in novels but never actually seen someone do. "So, what, you think you too good for the House?"

"Well, it's ok I guess," Isabel says, and then it happens. She doesn't really mean for it to, but this girl is irritating her _so much _with her uppity attitude, and Isabel _hates _people looking down on her. She opens her mouth and what comes out is, "I probably won't stay long. My daddy said he'd come get me if I didn't like it, and he'd send me to a _better_ school."

It never works, it sometimes works, it never works for long, and Isabel curses herself for already messing up her clean slate here, but it's become so ingrained it's like—she doesn't know what it's like. She has to say something that's not the truth. _Mommy can't come because she's at work. No, I just fell down the stairs, it was an accident._

"Liar."

"Am _not,"_ snaps Isabel. "My daddy's rich, he can send me to any school I want. If I call him and say I don't like it here he'll send a helicopter for me within half an hour!"

Qarri scoffs disgustedly. "If you had a daddy alive and not in jail or the crazy house, you wouldn't _be _here. That not even a _good_ lie. Maybe you should make that call, I don' think you smart enough to be here. Mr. W prolly just felt sorry for you!"

"It's not a _lie_!"

Her daddy _is_ in jail, as a matter of fact, and so is her mom and her brothers, all for different things, and she hopes they never never ever get out, but this brat has no right, no right to judge her by her family or where she's come from, no right at all! "What do you know about anything?" Isabel snarls, pasted smile long discarded. "I bet you were just stupid alley trash before Mr. W scraped _you_ off the street! You act so smart, cuz you're just _jealous_—"

"Oh, _da_, jealous of dis lying fishie wormbait, think you bum smell like roses? You don' got a chance here, princess, you gonna get scrubbed in a week!"

"Girls!"

"What?" Isabel snaps back, then cringes back when she sees that the person she's snapping at is Matron Marta.

"Perhaps you two should not sit together," the matron says grimly.


	48. Usurper

**AN: Well hello all. A quick note:**

**I've been planning this whole story out in a big excel file, and with 12 chapters left to go, 6 are actually complete and another 2 are partially so, and I have vague ideas for what's happening with the other four. So my note is,**

**If there are any plot threads that you feel are hanging loose, or characters you want to know more about, NOW IS THE TIME TO PIPE UP AND SAY SO. As in literally, the next three days (today is 8/1). This story is already twice as long as I originally planned and it's not going to get longer than 60 chapters +HackMe rules and a character glossary. So again-if there is something particular you have been wanting to see or know about, don't assume that I've thought of it or have been intentionally building up to it. Let me know.  
**

* * *

48. Usurper

Fallon is on a high today. Nothing can bring him down when he's flying, or swimming. Flying through water. Yeah, that works. Slamming his foot to the wall of the pool and thrusting off again, F slices through the water like a friggin' dolphin. Or a _shark_. A _dolphin-shark_ that could own all the other dolphins and sharks in one giant oceanic race-a-palooza. King of the Sea!

He explodes from the surface at the end of the lap to slap his hand down on the floor, and the swim teacher halts the stopwatch.

"Faster by three seconds," his teacher says with a grin.

"That's right! Ha, that's what I'm talking about!" Fallon crows, and throws himself backward into the pool with a colossal splash. The impact stings, but it's the sting of victory! Kings of the Sea don't feel pain!

"Good work, F. Why don't we call it a day?"

"Kings of the Sea don't take breaks!" F yells enthusiastically, leaping out of the water and crashing in again.

"Maybe not, but Kings of the Sea still have to do their sociology homework," points out the teacher good-humoredly as soon as he breaks the surface.

"True! Kings of the Sea also rule at sociology! That is why we make such great Kings!"

"Alright, come on out then," the teacher laughs.

As soon as he gets back to his room to put away his swim goggles and grab some clothes to change into Fallon notices he's got Housemail. A brief glance proves it to be from Dex.

"Sorry, Kings of the Sea don't waste their time reading messages from pompous nerds before showering," Fallon tells his computer, scoffing a little and snagging a clean towel from his dresser.

Obviously it's still there when he gets back, but not a priority. He towels off his hair, flips through the assignment sheet for this week's sociology paper, and glances through a few of the recommended resources the professor has listed.

It doesn't seem complicated, and so he's got plenty of spare brain power to wonder while he's at it what D might be bugging him about now. (He could just look, but that's not as fun as analyzing and predicting and seeing if he's right.) A couple years ago he might have expected it to be some boring sly remark about the succession, or else an even more boring message about keeping quiet because other people are studying or to stop teasing Kae or whatever. Since the whole—well—fiasco with A and B, though, Dex has actually been pretty good about not being such a bossy jerk.

Well, Fallon temporizes—because he's in a great mood and he's inclined to be generous even to pompous nerds when he's cheerful—just in general D has been more…withdrawn. It sucked a lot for all of them (though, F thinks privately, getting rid of B was the gold medal of all silver linings), but Dex really took it personally, blaming himself for the whole crazy thing. Of course, F would be the first to leap up and point out that that in itself is something of an indicator of Dex's own self-importance, but at the same time the experience certainly took him down a few notches, and he's a lot more bearable these days. And really, with his pompousness toned down, F thinks D can actually be a really good leader.

Just not a good L. That'll be _his_ place.

At this F thinks he's put off reading the message long enough for it to seem like it's not that important without it being so long that it seems like he's deliberately avoiding it, so he opens up the email and reads it.

_F,  
you see the scores posted for the crimpsyc test yet? if not I rec looking  
D_

Criminal psychology scores? Maybe Fallon was wrong, and Dex has somehow regained all his old buggerliness and is back to snidely pointing out every time he gets a better grade. He sits back a little, laughing to himself. Well, that's too bad. Oh well. So he got a few points higher, so what? They wrestle back and forth in their percentages all the time.

"That's ok, D, King of the Sea will take you down tomorrow," he tells the computer cheerfully, but even as he's deleting the message, a new one from pops up from Gao. The subject line reads _HAHAHAHA._ Grinning a little in expectation of some new joke or prank, he pulls it up.

_GO CHECK CPSYC SCORES. NOOOOOW_

Hmm. Well, maybe he should go take a look. Honestly the only thing that Fallon can think of that could possibly have Dex sounding slightly concerned and Gao in stitches about criminal psychology would be if little Lin pulled out a miracle and took the top score, but he can't imagine how that would be possible unless he and D both coincidentally had a couple pages of the test stuck together or something and missed a few questions.

The moment he steps out into the hall G practically pounces, face shining with deranged glee. "Come on, hurry it," the younger boy says urgently. His slanted eyes glint. "I cannot _wait_ to see you expression."

Gao gets exactly what he is hoping for.

"_WHAT_?" Fallon roars when he sees the list posted on the professor's door, as Gao sags against the wall holding his stomach and shrieking with hysterical hyena laughter. "THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE! HE PRACTICALLY A _FETUS_!"

"Lil' M thrashed you both good," G chokes through his laughter.

"BEGINNER'S LUCK!" he screams at the other boy, not at all sharing in his amusement. Criminal psychology is _his_ subject! He gets thrashed all the time in math and sciences, and how could he not be? Concord practically _is _a computer, Icarus and Hopper live and breathe physics, Jitter speaks calculus better than he speaks English, and Kae—well—she gets lucky sometimes. But Fallon completely destroys everyone except Dex in this arena. In _L's _arena. This is a fight for the giants. David doesn't beat Goliath in this story. Goliath stomps him and uses him for a gel insole in his favorite stomping shoes!

Kings of the Sea do NOT get bested by little punk-ass eight-year-old guppies like Mello!

The storm rushes him to Dex's room, hurricane winds tearing paintings down from the walls and peeling the paint. He doesn't even get the pleasure of trying to knock down the door, because D hears him coming and opens it.

"I gather you seen it by now," the older boy says evenly. He's clearly trying to appear flippant, but the firm set of his mouth and the white-knuckled grip he has on the edge of the door sort of ruin it.

"WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?" Fallon howls.

"Competition, I imagine," Dex answers. His non-frown ratchets a couple notches tighter. "It could just be a fluke."

"Are you guys talkin' 'bout M bestin' you on the crim psyc test?" pipes Linda's little voice, peeping around her door across the hall.

"Yep," laughs Gao breathlessly, just catching up to them.

"IT WAS A _FLUKE_!" F shouts at her, clenching his fists in indignant rage. Blanching, Linda ducks back into the shadow of her door.

"There no point barking at _her_ for it," says Dex, swiveling around to stand between them and facing down Fallon's impending-typhoon expression. "Get a grip."

Having D tell him to cool it does exactly nothing to calm him down, but just as Fallon is building up to let loose on his competitor, the other boy clears his throat uncomfortably and says in a more conciliatory tone, "Anyway, I uh…I got a copy of his test answers. So. You know. If you want to take a look. You can."

As suddenly as it blew up, his anger implodes, collapsing around his ears like a demolished building. Kings of the Sea don't need _favors_, but he actually is dying to see what on earth that infant did that convinced the professor to actually score him above Dex and Fallon, and it's like he's been dragged down to his knees in chains. This is humiliating.

"No," he mumbles, running a hand through his shaggy hair and turning away, back toward his own room. "It's…whatever."

"It not the end of the world, F," Lin says tentatively from her doorway, as Gao quickly interjects, "Well,_ I _wanna see it!"

"Look, F," D says, and it's his tone that makes Fallon pause, because Dex was defeated too, and he's also angry, and he's reaching out as an indignant equal to join against a new threat from below. "I know we never—I know we get on each other's nerves—"

"HA!" Gao barks out, stifling his laughter to a muffled giggle as both of the older boys give him a sour look.

"There are always gonna be new students, and some of them might be real challengers," Dex goes on, sounding as though he doesn't particularly appreciate having to sacrifice his pride to say so. "We may have something to gain from analyzing M's test together. Give each other a new perspective to meet a new challenge."

He's altogether too much the politician, and Fallon almost can't stand him for it, but he's also right.

"Oh, fine then," he sighs.


	49. Dare

**AN: Holy crows, sorry this took so long to update. I don't know why but I had such a huge block on this chapter, and then it turned out super long and I'm still not happy with it...well, whatever.**

**Also, I'm up to Devon on the Wammy Letter Banners on dA.**

* * *

49. Dare

"I not sayin' it _true_, that just what Gao told me," Geia murmurs, raven-haired head bent over their digital workstation, rearranging the flowchart on the table screen with her stylus.

Hunter scoffs. "That alone enough to discredit it," he points out.

"_Dui a_, he just tryin'a scare you," says Echo, eyes following G's stylus. "Prolly hope if you more stressed you gonna buy more smoke off him."

"Ha!" Jordan barks, "Finals not bad enough, gotta bring spooks int'it?" With a gusty sigh, he drops his elbows on the edge of the table screen.

"J!" Geia gasps, as the contact makes her flowchart twist out of shape.

"Sorry!"

"Keep you drama on _you_ side," she mutters to herself, dragging the boxes back into place with her fingers. "Anyhow. I surprised you haven't heard that before."

"I _heard_ it," Hunter says defensively. "I just don' believe in ghosts. Show me evidence instead of some cricketty story that big G try to feed us and maybe I actually think about it."

"I surprised to hear that, Tinfoil, I thought you into stuff like that," Echo teases.

"Will you stop it with the stupid nickname? That was years ago," H says, scowling. "Look, G, you can do all that arranging automatically—"

"I know. I like doing it myself. Stop it." Frowning, she swats his hands away.

"Well, it takin' forever—"

"Wouldn't take forever if you'd stop messin' it up, Tinfoil."

"Now you got her on it too," Hunter snaps, turning irritably on Echo, who shrugs.

"Anyway though," E says, "I don' think there a curse and I don' think there ghosts either, and if me and H actually _agree _on something, we can't possibly be wrong. If this place haunted, why there's not some crazy intense paranormal investigation goin' on?"

"You kiddin', right?" Now it's J who's laughing. "Crusties and brass wouldn't ever let anyone. Even Gao make little jokes, but he got pissed when R and O tried to set up those mics and e-mag detectors in—" his voice drops several decibels, to what would almost be a normal speaking level for anyone else, "—in B's old room."

"_Shhh_!" Hunter and Geia shush him simultaneously, looking around paranoidly as though someone might be listening in. Which, in the House, is always a strong probability.

"See what I mean?" says Jordan, throwing up his hands.

"Yes, fine, we see what you mean," snaps H quietly, "Now stop talking about it, let's focus on this assignment."

"You awful skitty about it seein' as you don' even believe in the ghosts," Geia comments, brows rising under her thick black hair. "And you want proof, what about Beck, hm? He was fine before he said he saw that—"

"Let's not talk about that," Echo interrupts, suddenly very interested in the table screen, restraining a shiver. Beckon was not exactly a friend of hers, but it still makes her sick to her stomach, remembering—opening the door, only knocking after—not seeing him at his desk, thinking he must be in the library—turning to go—and there he was, toes gripping the edge of the chair like he was terrified to drop and terrified to stay standing, and too surprised by her unexpected interruption to do either—

"E!"

She gasps when Jordan grabs her wrist and snatches her hand away from the table screen, where she's drawn a square and outlined it three times without realizing it.

_Tap tap tap tap._

"Right," J laughs, "I can see these ghost don' bother _either _of you."

"I not _bothered_," Echo retorts, snatching her hand away. "Just wanna get on with this assignment."

"Mmhmm," G says, nodding sardonically to herself. "Both you don' believe in the ghost, _dui ma_? Somehow not convinced."

"So you _do_?" H deflects, scowling.

"I not convinced either way," Geia returns calmly. "I never seen or heard anything solid, but," she shrugs, frowning. "Passin' B's door give me the jeebles sometimes. Not 'fraid to admit that."

"Pffft! Be as superior as you want about it, you still basically admittin' you scared of a _room_," Hunter scoffs.

"An' besides, _B_ didn't die," Echo points out in a whisper. "Why would _his_ room be haunted? Don' make no sense."

"Yeah? Bet you wouldn't be so cocky if you _did_ go in there and try to prove nothin' there." Jordan rolls his eyes until they look like they'll spin right out of his head.

"It just another room, same as any other. There nothing to prove," H says irritably.

"Fine then," says Geia, finally standing straight and looking coolly from Echo to Hunter, gesturing for them to lean in so they can hear her lowered voice. "You say you not scared, prove it. I dare you both to break in there—and stay overnight. Tonight."

"Haha, I'll back that!" Jordan crows gleefully.

"No way!" E says, repulsed, as H pulls a disgusted face.

"Ghosts is one thing, but I not so bent on provin' they not there that I gonna let _her_ annoy me to death," Hunter declares, pointing at E, and Echo agrees whole-heartedly. Putting up with his micro-managing, bit-planning neurosis on this group history project is pushing her patience to its limits already. As if trying to manage her own OCD isn't enough! Being stuck _alone_ with him for consecutive _hours_? Nuh-_uh_.

"So you _are_ scared," J says smugly.

"Am _not_," snaps Hunter.

"Sure, whatever. All big talk so long's you don' gotta back it up, but as soon as you put up to it you cave in, yeah—"

"I'm not scared!" H bellows.

"Keep it down," Geia whispers, punching him lightly in the shoulder as other students start to look oddly in their direction.

"Fine," H hisses at Jordan, "I'll do it. I'll prove there aren't any stupid ghosts up there. Happy now?"

Bouncing a little on his heels, J turns his challenging grin on Echo.

And that's how she winds up sneaking down the hall after curfew with her blanket and pillow and physics book all rolled up in her arms, thinking dire thoughts in Jordan and Geia and Tinfoil's directions.

Being the obsessive, controlling basketcase he is, Hunter has insisted on making all the arrangements for getting into the locked room himself, leaving nothing for Echo to do but show up without getting caught. She hasn't come empty-handed, though—wrapped up in her blanket with her homework are a jammer, a bug-sweeper, and a tiny metal detector. E has no idea what made poor Beckon snap except that it sure as hell wasn't ghosts, but she wouldn't put it past either Geia or Jordan to get someone to rig up something to make she and Hunter think the place is haunted, or at least give them a good scare. She knows she'd certainly do so in their place!

"You late!" H whispers accusingly when she slips through the door—a plain door like any other door in the dormitories.

"Cool it, Tinfoil, the brass were patrollin' the floor," Echo whispers back, rolling her eyes and flicking on her flashlight as he kicks the rolled-up towel he brought back in front of the door. If any of the brass on night patrol see lights coming from B's old room—well, E has a feeling she'd be stuck with Hunter even longer, pulling weeds or scrubbing plates.

There's nothing much to say about the inside of the room. It looks just like all of their rooms—rectangular with a window across from the door and a closet on one side, a standard issue bedframe, desk, bookshelf, nightstand and dresser. The only difference is that it's empty: nothing on the shelves, no computer workstation on the desk, no mattress or covers on the bedframe.

And it's incredibly dusty.

"Careful," says H, his voice muffled through the blanket he's got pressed over his nose and mouth. "Tried'a sit down and almost had a seizure."

Echo stifles a sneeze, and finds she can completely commiserate. Grimacing, she wraps her own blanket over her face, resisting the urge to shake off the floor dust that's already gotten on its trailing corner. No doubt doing so would just kick up even more of the stuff.

"Musta been years since they clean in here," she comments.

"Yeah. I guess the brass take they superstition pretty serious," Hunter says. "No tracks or anything, 'cept dusted-over marks prolly left by R and O a couple years back."

"Which at least prolly mean no mics or buzzies."

"Prolly not. I did a sweep on the rooms on both side and came up zero."

"Well goodie." Just because Hunter checked doesn't mean Echo isn't going to double-check—sure, he knows what he's doing, but he always might have missed something. Or, if there is a prank going, he might be in on it. Gingerly, trying not to stir up more dust than is inevitable, she puts down her pillow (gross, but it's not like there's anything to clean to put it down on) and teases free her own detection gadgets.

"What, think I can't do a simple sweep?" H demands, as she starts with each corner of the room (inconspicuously finger-tapping each seam where the walls meet with her back to him so he can't see that she's doing, because she's not supposed to do it, but she just doesn't feel _right _until she has).

"Like you wouldn't triple-check on me?"

He doesn't have anything to say to that, though he grumbles to himself under his breath as she finishes her sweep. Sure enough, it comes up clean—not so much as a pin speaker.

With that out of the way…well…Echo takes far longer than her time packing her equipment away again, stripping the pillowcase off her pillow and putting the sensors inside so they won't get dust inside the casings. On the other side of the room, Hunter seems to feel similarly awkward, trying to clear a relatively dustless space for himself and arrange his blanket without dropping his flashlight. Eventually they both settle down, backs to opposite walls, E reading ahead in the chapter on photon momentum and Hunter busy with his calculator and statistics book.

To say it's uncomfortable is the understatement of, like, the _time-space continuum_.

For starters, it's physically uncomfortable—every once in a while one of them has to muffle a sneeze, and the dust tickles constantly at her nose and throat. Even with the blanket the floor is hard, and the room is musty and stuffy and a little too warm. Staying up late to study is second nature. She _likes_ reading about the photoelectric effect. But Echo likes to do her studying in a certain way: a bit of a nice breeze from the window, sitting upright at her desk with her computer right there to double-check facts or research more about interesting footnotes, with plenty of light and a glass of juice and maybe some quiet piano music, if she's in the right mood. And though she studies with Crash and Wiley during the day, or other students depending on how their projects are assigned, once evening hits she likes to be _alone, _focused on what she's doing and able to tap corners all she wants without anyone judging her. Right now it's just about killing her, looking at the rectangular page of the book and feeling tenser and tenser with the urge to touch her finger quickly to each corner.

But she can't, because Hunter is _staring_ at her.

She can feel his eyes almost like a physical pressure, although every time she glances up to catch him at it his gaze is fixed on his work, biting his lip in concentration. He's so quick she doesn't even see his head moving, though she hears him shifting and fidgeting, occasionally scratching the back of his neck. If she were Crash she'd just call him right out on it, but sitting here in the dusty dark, she's getting increasingly reluctant to break the airless silence.

"Will you stop that?" Hunter snaps, shattering it so abruptly that the air seems to crackle in her ears.

"I just sittin' here, mindin' my own business—why can't _you_ do the same?" Echo flares.

"I'm tryin' but I can't concentrate with you starin' at me like that!"

"Me? Look who talkin'!"

Tossing her a last dirty look, Hunter whips around on his blanket so his back is to her.

Crazy nutter. Pulling a face at the back of his head, Echo slumps down the wall so that she can't see him anymore over her knees and propped-up book. Is he trying to make her self-conscious on purpose?

And for some reason, of all the things to randomly pop up in her head, she wonders if there were any signs that Beckon was starting to lose it that they all simply overlooked.

She didn't know the boy all that well. He was quiet, and hard to talk to, given that he would usually forget he was talking to you in the middle of a sentence. Beckon found awesome new music for her to listen to and Echo updated his computer firewall every other month or so against House hacks. Other than that and occasionally debating in history and literature classes, she didn't have much to do with him. Would she have even noticed if he were acting differently?

And what about Hunter? He seems to be acting uncharacteristically nervous to Echo right now, but maybe he's just edgy for the same reasons she is. Then again maybe not. If she didn't know Beckon was slipping off the edge—how would she know if Hunter, or anyone else, might do the same any day?

That feeling of being watched is back. She resists the urge to tap out the corners of a square diagram on the page. Instead, scowling, Echo eases up a little to peek accusingly at the staring creep over her book.

Hunter's back is still to her, hunched over his flashlit statistics homework. He's not looking at her.

Despite that, the staring feeling is still there.

Huffing to herself, Echo slumps down again. She doesn't care what Gao and Geia and Jordan say—there's no such thing as ghosts. She's just imagining things and getting all worked up for no reason. Knowing that isn't calming her down, though. Even if Beckon was just imagining things, he still tried to hang himself in the end, didn't he? Never mind Hunter, what if _she's_ starting to lose it?

This is ridiculous.

"I'm going to sleep," she announces, her voice feeling unnaturally loud, though she's barely speaking above a murmur.

"Um…'k." Hunter looks as though he might say something else, but it must just be a trick of the dim light, or else he changes his mind, because instead he turns back around.

Curling up on her side with her back to the wall, Echo has no expectation that she'll actually be able to sleep. She can't breathe properly and her shoulder and hipbone hurt already from pressing into the floor and she doesn't usually sleep this early and Hunter's very existence and his stupid determination to prove he's not a wuss getting her stuck in this stupid dare are pissing her off because she could be in her room studying, and just as she's thinking about sitting back up and studying some more she drifts off.

The next instant she's struggling awake, heart pounding in panic, with a hand pinning down her shoulder and another clamped over her mouth.

"_Shhh_! It ok, you fine, just shush up!" H is hissing, then cries out in pain when she bites his hand, scrambling away and knocking her head into the wall.

"Ow!"

"Chill _out_, you crazed harpy!" Hunter whispers shrilly, clutching his hand and examining it with his flashlight.

"What—what the _hell_—"

Echo doesn't feel at all well, though she doesn't feel quite sick either—she's disoriented and disjointed, and now her head hurts, and she wants H to get _away_.

"You sleep for a while then start…uh," Hunter clears his throat awkwardly, "you were cryin', in you sleep…so I try to wake you up and you just flipped."

"I was _not_," she says defensively, rubbing her throbbing head (she's pretty sure a lump is forming already) and attempting to collect herself.

"Were too," H snaps, and goes back to nursing his bitten hand. "_Jeez_. You lucky you didn't draw blood—good thing we all got our shots—"

"Shut up, just—shut up, Tinfoil," Echo hisses back at him, stirring up a cloud of choking dust as she practically jumps to her feet and strides across the room to the window. She's angry to find that her cheeks are indeed wet, and her eyes feel raw and achey. It's so close in here, and the watching is somehow worse, and she can't remember what she was dreaming about just now except that it made her stomach turn with dread and tar-sticky apprehension.

"It stuck. Won't open," H says behind her, muted, as she struggles with the window latch. It seems like there's not moonlight coming in at all, but she can just barely see the shiny streaks in the dust on the windowsill where someone else's desperate fingers apparently tried to do the same thing not so very long ago.

She has to get a grip, Echo thinks dimly, she's a logical, reasonable person of sound mind and there is absolutely no logical, reasonable excuse for the way she's letting a stupid nightmare that she can't even remember and all this stupid dust and this stupid _room_ get to her.

"You were having a nightmare, huh?"

"Obviously," she bites out, turning sharply away from the window and brushing by him again to sit back down against the wall.

"Gonna try and study some more?"

Echo is about to snarl at him, but there's an anxious sort of tilt in the way he's not quite looking at her, and the wells the flashlight carves under his eyes. A sudden suspicion sneaks into her mind. "…Have _you_ been up studying this whole time?"

"Tried to sleep for a bit…but uh…just not tired I guess."

"You were havin' nightmares too."

"Well, it not surprising," Hunter says defensively, reasoning, "We—I mean, we both know we both have OCD. It just bein' off our normal schedule and patterns throwin' us off. That's all."

"Yeah," Echo says. Normally she would get a kick out of calling H's bluff, but here in the choking dark, feeling shaken and unsettled, E gladly seizes on the excuse. "Not that tired anyway. And sure don' hurt to get a bit more readin' in."

"Yeah. Yeah, you right."

The last few hours of the night are spent huddled against the same wall, pretending to work and checking the time often and determinedly not commenting whenever the other jumps or twitches or suddenly looks around as though to catch an invisible watcher. The brush of grey predawn through the window is the most beautiful thing Echo has ever seen.

"Well. I still not convinced of _ghosts_," Hunter mutters as they gather up their dust-smeared blankets.

"No," Echo agrees, then says pointedly, glancing at him sidelong, "Don' know when you woulda seen one anyway, seem to me like you crashed pretty hard all night."

It's probably the first time in their lives Hunter has ever had cause to give her a grateful look. "Sure did," he says. "Seem like you did too."

"Like a log."

"Won't say anything if you don't."

"You got you a deal, H."


	50. Janiceps

' _[One form of conjoined] twinning is characterized by the [frontal] union of the upper half of the body…The anomaly is occasionally known as __**janiceps**__, named after the 2-faced Roman god Janus. The prognosis is extremely poor because surgical separation is not an option, as a single brain and heart are present….' _

(Kamal K. Conjoined Twins: eMedicine Pediatrics: Surgery. . com/article/934680-overview)

50. Janiceps

There are a thousand reasons for Mello to leave the House.

For starters, he's sick of it: the House, papers, books, exams, late nights in the library, all of it.

For years he's worked himself down to the bone, obsessing sleeplessly day and night. Reading, rereading, memorizing. Drilling himself relentlessly to internalize the vagaries and loopholes of laws and cases and psychological diagnoses. Since the age of eight Mello has poured his heart and mind and every ounce of effort he could muster into studying, hoping against hope that he could somehow edge his grades to the top: first successfully over Dex and Fallon's, then hopelessly, uselessly over Near's, and, failing that, succeed in cheating the House system—somehow get L himself to notice him, see how hard he's working, that he's willing to do anything to reach that goal.

And what has he achieved?

Nothing.

The first leads into the second. With L gone and the succession in Roger's hands, that's the end of it. His slim chance is gone. For all of his cheap pretenses at being even-handed, Roger always favors Near over him. No matter what anyone claims they'll all know that it's really Near in charge.

Third, he's finally accepting the unavoidable fact that here just as everywhere else, he's unwanted. Everyone in this House hates him as much as he hates them.

No, that's not entirely true. Near bears a grudge against him, is aggravated by him, but doesn't hate him. Near wants him to stay. But Near wants him under control, caught helpless under his thumb. Near wants him to stay so he'll be conveniently available—wants Mello to remain in his place alongside the scissors and paintbrushes and craft knives and all of his other tools. He actually wishes his Twin (God, how he loathes that nickname!) _did_ hate him back equally, shoving back and attacking just as viciously when Mello lashes out at him, instead of what he does do—lying in wait then entrapping him with his own impulsive actions and effectively putting him in a headlock, all the while barely lifting a finger.

And that's the biggest reason of all. Mello is leaving because it's a brass-knuckled punch in that brat's face. When he's gone, Near will be sorry, oh yes, Mello is well aware that Near is far more terrified of being left behind than any other revenge he could imagine, however creative or excruciating. Mello fancies he knows Near better than that arrogant sot knows himself.

And if Mello is the one that's hurting right now—well, that's only natural, isn't it? You can't hit someone that hard without bruising your own knuckles and besides there are a million other things to be upset about so it has nothing nothing _nothing _to do with Near. Mr. W is dead, L is dead—the two people he most admired, the one who saved him from his old terrible life and the one who promised hope for a new life of the respect and power he deserves. It's just now occurred to him that he never said goodbye to Matt and that in failing to do so he's probably jeopardized his connection to his only potential ally, he doesn't know where he's going to sleep tonight, it's too cold out for the light jacket he grabbed before leaving most of his things behind and he's just missed the train for London by _five measly minutes _and oh God, Kira beat L, Kira beat L, that mass-murdering lowlife scum beat L.

So no, not one _speck_ of it has anything to do with leaving Near behind—Near, who has always been there, friend and brother then enemy and brother for almost as long as he can remember, who he can barely imagine life without. But he's thinking of it entirely the wrong way, and corrects himself viciously. Like Esau kicking his way free of Jacob's parasitic grasp at birth Mello too is now free, and he will seize his rightful inheritance to spite the powers that favor the younger, wrestling angels and blind fathers be damned.

He's drawn up his hood so the ticket seller won't see the tears pouring down his cheeks. Shivering and burning and angry and shattered, Mello waits on the hard, uncomfortable bench at the train station with his backpack clenched between his knees and tries to stem the flood of everything scarlet and icy and poisonous and jagged that's roaring through him with bar after bar of chocolate.

A piece or two of it has always made him feel better in the past. The restrictions of the House nutritionist and his own ferocious self-discipline have always prevented him from eating more than that at a time except on special occasions-the best and worst of days.

When he saw the cheery purple Cadbury wrappers through the plastic front of the vending machine, though, Mello burst into tears for no reason and mechanically inserted coins and punched buttons until he'd emptied it of Dairy Milk bars.

Cash is a limited resource right now and he's already starting to feel queasy but he doesn't regret it for an instant as he rips open the fourth chocolate bar, though he does slow down enough to let it melt on his tongue instead of simply stuffing it down. He'll eat as much chocolate as he wants and more, because there's no one to tell him otherwise or to look down on him—except the ticket seller, and what does that stupid wormbait know about anything? Mello snarled at the old man earlier when he tentatively asked if he was alright, and he's probably still shaking in his shoes. So he'll eat as much candy as he damn well pleases, and do whatever he damn well pleases too—he'll—he'll wear outrageous clothes, yeah, so that nobody will be able to avoid noticing him—and he'll ride a _motorcycle_ and drive way too fast in traffic and he'll—he'll get a gun—yeah! a gun—and learn to shoot it and if anyone so much as _thinks_ anything he doesn't like or tries to boss him around he'll shoot them in their snotty face!

His eyes are raw and hot and his mouth feels disgustingly gummy and he's sick from crying and too much chocolate, but as he works himself up Mello barely notices these things. Just wait, and he'll show everyone. He'll make that Kira slime crawl for what he did to L, and he'll prove that he can do it without a molecule of help from the House and he'll rip that title right out of Near's hands and stomp on it because it's worthless now, because L _failed _and he lost and he let them all down, let Mello down, and he'll show his so-called Twin that he doesn't need him any more than he needs anyone else, which is not at all.

The more upset he gets the more disjointed his thoughts become, until he honestly doesn't know who he hates most: L or Near or Roger or his father or everyone or himself. He tells himself revenge will be sweet, and cries, and eats chocolate.


	51. Glass

51. Glass

"Wanna see this awesome new trick Wiley taught me?" says Raphael brightly, spinning quickly to catch the falling hacky sacks she's thrown into the air.

"No."

"Fine. I'm doin' it anyway."

"Ok."

"…Wanna go see if the calc scores are posted yet?"

"No."

"…You think Train's out of class? Wanna go find him?"

"No."

"…Wanna go play GlassWorld?" Raphael tempts.

"R…stop."

Right now, what Ochre 'wanna' do is watch this video clip Quinn has sent her. She has a low, lurky feeling it's going to be bad.

Quinn is a strange, flighty girl. Ochre does not like her most of the time. Ochre does not like most people most of the time. She keeps a running tally in her mind for every person she knows to keep track of whether she likes them or not. When a person does something that she thinks is intelligent, or useful, or (rarely) funny, she mentally awards them points. When they do something that is stupid or boring or annoying, she subtracts points. If someone is above zero points, she likes them. If someone is below zero, she doesn't. For instance, usually she likes Raphael, but she is currently losing points and is on the verge of crossing that dividing line.

(Once, one person actually made it up to 310. It is to date the highest score she has ever awarded anyone. Mr. W is years dead though now and so there is not much point in comparison. The lowest record other that Kira is -862 and belongs to her brother, and that psychotic bastard is rotted too.)

Quinn usually hovers around -35, because she keeps on talking when she has nothing to say and that is very irritating. However, Ochre does not bear grudges with her point system, and for all her annoying weirdness, every once in a while in the spewing mess of chatter that pours from Quinn's mouth there is some mind-shattering observation or gravity-defying leap of intuition that changes the way O sees things. On those occasions she usually jumps from -35 all the way up to 60 or even 70.

This is one of those times. In fact, Ochre has a feeling she's going to owe Quinn points retrospectively.

_Remember what I used to say about the Ms? _Quinn has written, and added the link to the video.

Ochre remembers, because she recalls with painful clarity her hideous embarrassment when Q started shouting and carrying on one day in the library, babbling about how Matt was full of holes, as well as the time she did a jolting doubletake and nearly threw her water glass at Mello, gasping that he was on fire, before Ochre grabbed her wrist and pinned it back down to the table—slopping water everywhere, but at least averting their probable deaths at the highstrung Twin's furious hands.

And yet—and yet—every once in a while, despite all the ridiculous fairytale stories and confused ramblings, it turns out that Q's stupidity is perhaps not so stupid, but in fact, quite terrifyingly, impossibly smart. What about Xie and Vince, for instance? Nobody else, not even Dr. Bull, had any idea just how far past that line between House-crazy and scrubble-crazy X had slipped behind that set face and calm tone, but what about that 'bloody hands' non sequitur Q had made about X the one time?

_Okie! Okie, Matt's full of holes—_

She clicks the play button.

"Hey, watcha watchin'?" Raphael asks, coming to peer over her shoulder.

The video, from a Japanese pro-Kira news site, was posted in the small hours of the morning—what would have been afternoon in Japan.

"Japanese? Does this got something to do with the Ki—"

"Quiet," snaps Ochre. Her Japanese isn't all that great and she has to concentrate to understand what the newscaster is saying.

It's some kind of car chase—some sort of anti-Kira rebel—

(the use of the term makes Ochre smoulder a little in irritation and immediately knock the news reporter from zero to -80; it's an inappropriate term, Kira has no true authority and therefore opposing him is not _rebellion_)

—and given Q's little caption, O has a sinky-sick feeling she knows who might be in that car.

"Whoa, this guy sure know how t' drive, that really—"

"_Quiet_."

The police catch up. Ring him round. It's Matt, by himself, still with the stupid-looking goggles and now with an even stupider-looking fur monstrosity masquerading as some form of clothing. Minus twenty points for poor taste. Then Matt is full of holes and he abruptly has no score at all, while the newscaster cheers and rabbits on about the glory and righteousness of Kira's justice.

For no particular reason Ochre finds herself remembering, as though it's a mural or a slideshow she's examining from a few miles away, her second week at the House and how by that point she felt like she was drowning in a whirlpool of new numbers and circus psychos and dramadramadrama_noise_, because that was how the House was and she hadn't yet figured out how to filter her way down through the noise and find the quiet, sullen currents that wound their way beneath it all, the right times to be in the right places to find some peace. She'd been heading purposefully down the dormitory hall in the evening, her purpose not any particular destination but to be _away _from her room, where with Jordan on one side and Raphael on the other it was unbearably loud. And abruptly a door had opened, and a much older boy's head had popped out, looking first in one direction then the other then down to fix his murky green eyes on her.

"Oh. That was easy," he'd said. "Come here and try this."

With nothing better to do and with some fairly critical thoughts about the goggles tangled in his messy hair and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke inside the dark, messy room, Ochre had warily followed him in, to find herself steered to the chair and plopped down in front of a computer screen splashed with a weird white-pink-green neon blur, and the thin steel-sheen letters _GlassWorld 2.0 _blazoned across it.

"I'm gonna put this on you, 'k? So don' freak," Goggles had said, showing her a bizarre contraption of wires and bits and bobs duct-taped to something that looked like it started life as a skate helmet, headphones, and a pair of safety glasses. "You my first test subject for 2.0. Played 1 yet?"

"One what?" Ochre had asked, hiding her trepidation under her flat tone.

"Oh, even better. A GlassWorld virgin." She heard rather than saw his grin, because he had plonked the _thing _down on her head, completely blocking out everything except a giant green _Waiting for signal…_ glowing in the darkness. She didn't like it—not being able to see, and barely being able to hear through the giant headphones covering her ears. "Well hold ont' you socks, kiddo. What letter are you again?"

"O for Ochre."

"Hey O, I'm Matt, and I'll be your wilderness guide today. Ok, just a sec…."

There was a clatter of keys, and suddenly the white-pink-green of the computer screen rushed out of the darkness and wrapped around her, making her gasp and jolt in the chair, and then like water it flowed and rippled and froze into walls and crystal trees and a vast, mirrored lake, and the great steel letters _GlassWorld_ towering above her. The whisper of wind hissed through the headset, carrying with it the tinkling sound of glass branches clinking together.

"What is this?" Ochre asked tightly, gripping at the arms of the chair and trying not to shake, and then jumped as a keypad she couldn't see was dropped into her lap.

"It's a game," explained Matt's disembodied voice right in her ear, suddenly much clearer now in the headset. "—uh, you know any calculus?"

"Some," she managed, still preoccupied with being overwhelmed. Slowly, she turned her head, and the view changed. Ochre and the steel letters seemed to be at the top of a large grey hill, the strange, matte surface sloping down to the platinum-mirror lake, gleaming in the pinks and greens of the sky. In one direction was a forest of what looked like glass trees; in the other was a maze with glass walls. From her vantage point above it, she thought she could see things moving in it, dark shadows that flitted through the shifting reflections. Looking down at herself, she saw that her body was a vaguely anthropomorphic silver shape with rounded arms and legs but no hands or feet.

"Good, then learning to play won't be so bad. Like the view? Aris rendered it. Artists, you know, here we find a use even for them, ha. No offense if you an artist. 'K, look around. Can you see me?"

Her fingers dug into the chair arms as she tentatively turned around. Sure enough, another silver blob-person was standing there, a green diamond inset in the front of its round head instead of a face.

"Do you have a green diamond on your face?"

"Yep, good. Ok, now…" Another clatter. "Can you see what _I_ see?"

"What?" she asked, unsure of what he meant, looking around. "I see trees, and…a lake…."

"You just see the world? No box in the upper right corner with another view?"

"...No."

"Well, poop. Just, uh…explore a bit, will you, while I figure this out. Here." Ochre jumped as his big hands took her own and placed them on the keypad, sliding them around on the smooth surface. "Go like _this _to move—push harder to go faster—and use your thumbs to move your arms. Like that. Ok, I'll be back. Try not to get killed, I don't wanna hafta restart you."

"…What's the point of the game?" Ochre had asked skeptically. Just how long did this Matt think she was going to sit around waiting so she could be his guinea pig?

"Well right now, the point is 'get the game to work right'. Use you 'magination, if you weren't a smart girl you wouldn't be here, _ja_?"

Ochre was aware her lips were pressing into an irritated pout as she stuttered down the hill, stumbling and weaving like her brother used to when he came home late, late at night and did and said terrible things. Thoughts of her brother, however, were soon forgotten, and Matt began to win back all of the points he'd lost for his messiness and dumb goggles as she wandered through alien crystal forests, listening to the wind and quiet.

Now, the two girls stare at Ochre's computer screen, Raphael's mouth hanging slightly open and O not at all sure what her face is doing, because she feels numb.

_Matt's full of holes!_

_Try not to get killed._

The sickening thought that if Matt is riddled with bullets on the other side of the world then Mello might actually be on fire pops into her head, and Matt was only at 25 points and Mello was somewhere around -90 but that doesn't mean she ever wanted them dead, and she doesn't quite make it to the bathroom before she vomits.

And she's glad, at least, that she found out in relative privacy, because it's sure to be all over the House by the end of the day, the first Wammy to be killed—murdered—on the Outside, weren't they all supposed to live forever? Though if Mr. W can die, and L can die young, and Matt can die younger, perhaps they're none of them fated to grow old, and Matt was just a weird kid with fast thumbs who knew how not to talk all the time and had no taste in clothing, there was no reason to fill him up with bullets except that he was on L's side and not Kira's just like all of them, and she can hear the click of points deducted like glass branches rattling in a windstorm under Kira's name: negative million, negative billion, negative trillion.


	52. Straws

**AN: I was hoping I could get this all out before the start of term...so much for that. I have Avatar:TLA to thank for that, I guess.

* * *

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52. Straws

"Shh, Geia—quiet during the test," the professor says softly, pausing at her desk as he makes his round to check on their progress.

Starting a little, G mutters a quick, "Sorry…." and bites the end of her pen to keep from mumbling her thoughts out loud to herself.

Outside, she was the quiet one. But when your circle of friends consists of Sember (who offers up his contributions to conversation like they're grenades he expects will explode in his hand any second), Beckon (who is not actually aware 70% of the time that he has been engaged in conversation) and Una (who seems to have a limit of about an hour total per day that she visits the real world from wherever it is her mind wanders off to), you end up talking extra to make up for all the silence, and she's quickly developed a frustrating habit of talking out loud, either to herself or to them (which, ultimately, is practically the same thing). _Someone_ has to keep up the conversation, and, well, if no one else is going to step up….

Geia wrenches her attention forcibly back to what she's supposed to be doing, which is writing an essay about the economic impact of alternative energy development. It's hard to concentrate, though. She's got a lot on her mind right now, most notably the fact that any day now she's supposed to hear back from the review board of _Trends in Cognitive Sciences_ to find out whether or not her first-ever article has been accepted for publication or not. This morning she had dragged Professor Hessa out of bed at four-thirty in the morning (_she_ couldn't sleep, so why should anyone else?) to make her check the joint email of G's scholarly false identity, Gail E. Hermon, despite the professor's assurances that the message probably wouldn't come til later in the afternoon or maybe even tomorrow, and sure enough there was no email yet; and she checked again right before and right after lunch and still there was nothing. Every second that ticks by, though, Geia is that much more tightly wound, positive that it must be here by now, bearing what feels like the future of her music therapy career.

Never mind the fact that she's eleven and it's the most respected journal in the field of psychology, Geia has been working so hard to tune her writing style to a believably adult tone that she thinks she might jump out her window if she's told again that her ideas are intriguing but her writing voice comes across as too unprofessional for a scholarly publication. Well not really but _still_.

And now she's staring into space again and not working, and it's her second test of the week and there's one more tomorrow and two more next week , holy moly she'd love to just rip up her test and drop her head on her arms and take a nap.

Near is the first to finish, obviously, Geia has no idea how he writes so quickly without looking hurried, or perhaps he's just perfected the art of brevity. Everyone is speeding up now, nobody wants to be second last and make people think they're uncertain of their answers (Mello is always _last_ last, and that's because he completely covers every centimeter of blank paper with his tiny crabby writing and not because he doesn't know the answers. Not that anyone wants to tease him about it anyway, because that would require approaching and talking to him (anyway he always scores just as well as Near despite taking so long and—

Gah, she's doing it _again_. Muttering the words to herself as she writes, Geia dashes off her answers as quickly as she can. She could phrase it more concisely or present her arguments more neatly, but at least she knows her responses are correct. Scribbling her concluding remarks even as she's getting up and starting for the professor's desk, G darts off as quickly as is dignified. Now she has enough time to run by Dr. Hessa's office before getting her violin for Nina and Over's composition project rehearsal recording.

It turns out to be a wasted effort. "Geia, I will let you know the instant I hear from the board. I will have Roger call you over the intercom if it will make you feel better," Hessa says, exasperated, and firmly sends her off on her way.

Silently stewing with nerves and anxiety, she drags herself off to get her electric violin, then swings by Una's room so they can head down to the practice room together and she can at least rant a little to her friend about this stupid slow review board, but she's not there.

Great. Just great.

"Hey G, wait up!"

It's Lazlo, looking harried and in a hurry (for Lazlo, that mostly means the armful of books he's lugging have pieces of notepaper sticking out of them at haphazard angles, instead of being arranged to be perfectly parallel). "Read the sign-script for the International Policy final projo yet? _You shijian_ brainstorm later?"

"_Dui_, I was gonna ask _mismo_—uh—I think we gonna be done 'cording 'fore dinner, so—media lab _après bouffe_, _hao ba_?" She's never worked with Lo before and his pickiness drives her crazy in class debates, but at least she can take comfort in the fact that he'll be organized. Not that it matters, because they've been assigned together whether she likes it or not.

"_Hao a_, lemme note it so I don' forget…." She holds his books while he scribbles it down in his planner, then borrows his pen to scrawl _IP MLab 8pm _on her hand, then hurries onward.

Nina and either Rom or Over's voices (they sound too much alike to tell) can be heard all the way down the corridor, already arguing before they've even started. Geia sighs as she approaches, her violin case tucked under one arm. N doesn't get along with R and O anyway, but at least she and Over got along bearably when it was just the two of them assigned to this composition project. Originally they had Crash on the drum part, but she broke an arm and both wrists falling off the roof a few weeks ago and so Over brought Rom in to take her place. Taken alone, Geia thinks either of the boys can actually be sort of funny and verging on pleasant. Together, though, they're a pair of twits.

"That not what I meant an' you know it," Nina is snapping bad-temperedly.

"That exactly what you meant and now you don' wanna face up!"

"Will alla yous shuddup on this one, so you gotta ego-bug, _whatever_," Aris barks just as G enters the practice room. "Got ten kazillion things t'do without draggin' this 'hearsal forever cuz you tiffin' at each other."

"You not the only one who busy, Ari, at least you done with half you tests, I still got four t'go on toppa this compozy, not my fault RO gotta be _dif__í__cil_!" Nina seems to be almost on the verge of tears.

"Hey ey ey, what alla this, what this about," Geia interrupts as both Rom and Aris open their mouths to retort.

Immediately everyone starts talking and pointing at each other accusingly.

"Kill it, don't wanna know _that_ bad," she says, rolling her eyes and sidestepping through them to set her violin case down on the table, popping the latches. Geia completely sympathizes with Aris, but saying so will only make this row last longer; distraction seems like the best tactic at the moment, and anyway her mind is on _Trends in Cognitive Sciences_ and she's distracted and in no mental shape to be arguing over whatever tactless blurb has most recently escaped Nina's mouth. "Where Faris and Una at?"

"Dunno," say Over and Rom in unison, propping their elbows up on the sound mixer.

"Prolly off in a corner somewhere sno—" Nina starts before both she and Aris clap a hand over her mouth, wincing and rubbing her face when A pulls away frowning. "Jeez, didn't have to help _that_ hard…."

"Should just tape you gob, then wouldn't need help," Rom snipes.

"Oh…are we still meeting?" Beckon says, meandering in looking as though he's there by mistake.

"Hey Beck."

"_Jaaa_, why wouldn't we be?" Over snaps as Nina and Aris slap their hands to their forehead.

"F zapped again," Beck answers absent-mindedly, making a beeline for the keyboard and brushing his fingers on the keys.

"What!"

"For serious?"

"Thought Verity pilled him for that?"

"He ok?" Geia demands. It's been months since Faris had a seizure.

"Hm? Uh…I guess so…he in sickroom, Una with him."

"Holy helly hack-it-all," Over groans, dropping his face into his hands and tugging dramatically on his fringe. "This whole thing just doomed. Ever'body gonna die or sick out 'fore we get this 'corded."

"Don' got 'nother string _and_ 'nother bass," Nina says blankly, sitting down heavily and staring at the doorway.

"Don' be a little girl," Rom says cheerfully, giving his friend a punch in the shoulder. "Can't you synth it?"

"Won't sound the same!" Nina protests.

"What 'bout Karter, he could take a keyboard, we could fudge the bass at least if we drag Una out for cello," Over says, with a pointed look at N.

"Think I didn't ask him earlier? He so freak on his wind-model project he barely even talkin' to anyone," Nina snaps.

"Don't worry," says Beckon vaguely, almost singing it to himself. "It all gonna work out peachy-pink."

"Yeah it will," Geia lies, because she feels bad for her friend but she has two tests to study for and an article up for publication and a million other things to worry about and sitting around doing nothing but panic over someone else's homework is nowhere on the list. "Come on. We bootstrap something together. We get through this."

"I don't think all of us will," Nina says automatically, then winces, and even Rom and Over pretend they didn't hear it.


	53. Sentence

53. Sentence

"You could at least look at me."

"I know why you're here, and I can't help you," Dex answers, scanning over the email he's composing. He's too busy to deal with Kae right now.

In two scant months he and Hopper will be of age by House reckoning, and they'll be prepared. No mucking around for entry-level jobs for _them_ upon graduation-they're launching their own (semi-legal) company with Concord, designing, making and selling high-end security (and anti-security) software and devices. C develops the software, H implements the hardware, and D's the one who analyzes the market and courts potential clients. It's a sign of how good they are that they've gotten as far as they have in a mere three months.

His email contact list right now is comprised of representatives for several dozen national defense departments and powerful international corporations. He has to pay keen attention to global politics and corporate jostling. Many of their future partners require a great deal of delicate manipulating and coddling and flattery. On the other end he's got a mountain of files awaiting his attention, containing the details of scores of up-and-coming engineers and developers that fit the bill of 'creative', 'moldable', and 'available for hire'. Then there's the contractor building their headquarters in Stockholm; there have been some setbacks in installing the electrics to Hopper's unorthodox specifications, and Dex has been pulling strings with the Warden's help to keep things on schedule. Then, completely unrelated to business matters, that diamond ring Hopper helped him pick out last time they visited London is burning a hole in his sock drawer.

On top of all that, the final draft of his research paper on the sociological effects of the Industrial Revolution on developing countries is due at midnight and he hasn't proofread it yet. Kae's problems aren't even _on_ his priority list.

"Can't, or won't?" Kae says in a low voice.

"Yes," Dex says seriously, clicking the Send button and turning to her.

He's mildly surprised at how defeated she looks. Briefly he wonders if coming to him was her last resort, then immediately discards the idea. It's plausible that the depressed slope of her shoulders and the unsuccessful struggle to keep her face from falling are not an act, but that doesn't mean she's not deliberately using her misery, however genuine, to try to win his sympathy.

It's not going to work. Quite the contrary, Dex would like nothing more than to dish out a scalding-hot piece of his mind. But despite how he feels about it, he made an agreement with Hopper and Concord, and he'll stick to the party line.

"We told you a long time ago that we would remain neutral in this issue."

"This not the same issue," Kae protests. "It not about—about F." The despondent look she casts up at him pathetically through her bangs, Dex thinks, is almost certainly calculated. "That was a long time ago. They've no right—"

"To what? Not speak to you? Not be your friends? In what way are they abusing any natural human right?"

"Don't you lawyer-talk at me, Dex, we known each other since we kids. You know alla sure that G and J gone swing out they way to make my life a living hell," she snaps.

That's something of an exaggeration. Gao and Jitter ignore Kae, pretending most of the time that she's not even there except for the occasional disgusted glance. It wouldn't be such a bad thing if it weren't for the lack of support from any other quarter; she and Icarus are still friends, but the bond has cooled noticeably, and many of her other allies have edged away over the years.

_Perhaps you should have thought of all this before_, he thinks, his mental tone of voice taking on a hard, sarcastic edge. Out loud, he replies smoothly, "They haven't harmed you, broken any rules, or otherwise acted in any way that has convinced us to alter our stance on the matter."

"We, we, it's always we. Can't you ever make a decision for yourself, Dex?"

"You assume that it would be in your best interest for me to do so," D says, and takes a great deal of grim satisfaction in the way her carefully practiced look of injured anger is yanked off her face.

For a moment, however fleeting, he appreciates how in a simple oblique threat he can impress upon K without betraying his friends the bitter fight that the three of them went through—the hours of heated debate and the philosophical disagreement that nearly brought he and Hopper to blows and made Concord storm back to her room to cry, and that agreeing to take no side was the only way to all be on the _same_ side. In a flash, she can see how tenuous her position with him is. Comparatively, Outsiders like the contractors and clients need to be ham-fisted around. For as much as he's enjoying the work and looking forward to whatever exciting things Outside has in store, Dex is going to miss the House, with all its slippery maneuverings.

And sure enough—in a second she's regained her footing, and changes tack.

"They been worse since Concord left, you know," she says.

"Concord likes things peaceful, and they needed to stay on her good side," says Dex, unable to stop the fond smile that finds its way onto his face.

"She wouldn't like what going on now that she gone."

It's a clumsy, desperate move. He isn't about to let Kae use his soon-to-be—hopefully—dear heaven, _hopefully_—fiancée's opinions to break the very truce he made for the sake of preserving his friendship with her.

"She was aware what the results of her absence might be and took them into account when she decided to leave." Dex turns back to his screen. "In any case, Hop and I are leaving soon. Nothing we might do would make a jot of difference once we were gone. There's nothing I can do for you."

"That not true," K says, approaching his desk entreatingly. "_Everybody_ listen to you. If you just said something to them—"

"But I won't, so this is a dead-end argument."

"Do you really think I deserve what they putting me through? It's been _years_, Dex!"

"You broke the rules. This is the result of your actions."

"Rules? _Rules_?" Kae flings her arms up in exasperation. "Who are you to talk about rules? Everybody in this place bend the rules to snapping point every day—"

"You as good as told him to stop taking his medication, Kae," D says, his voice hardening with quiet anger, because there are rules and then there are Rules and this is the biggest one. They agreed to be neutral on the issue of Kae's accusations about Fallon and her subsequent dealings with his best friends, but there was no question about this. "You messed with his tuning. You got a Wammy scrubbed. It should come as no surprise to you that his friends seek reprisal. Whether or not the particulars of their revenge are deserved is not for me to say."

"I didn't mean for it to come out like that, I was upset—"

"All the good intentions in the world will buy you little more than forgiveness from those few who will accept them," Dex snaps. For what has to be the millionth time that moment in the library, a mere five days before the infamous suicide incident, comes back to him: Alt looking back at them so desperately as Backup reeled him in like a fly in a web, and his mind overflows with things he could have, should have said—'_You don't have to be friends with him, A, come back and join _us' or '_Why do you follow him when he so obviously upsets you?_' or even just '_Go to hell, B_.' "There is no easy escape from the consequences of our actions, regardless of our intentions."

"So you will stand by and do nothing," Kae says, monotone and quiet.

"Keep in mind that 'doing nothing' includes not only not supporting you, but not acting against you. We decided that a long time ago."

There's a long silence, during which he begins replying to another email. Then K whispers, "Then what am I supposed to do? How do I escape this?"

For the first time in their little chat, D actually believes more than he doubts that her words come from the heart. She's not even looking at him anymore, but at her own hands, as though she is lost and they might give her some hint of where to go. Dex fixes his eyes on his computer screen, takes three slow breaths while he debates his next words, and says neutrally, "Only you have the power to remove yourself from this situation."

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

K trembles. "Is that the only solution you're going to suggest?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, merely pointing out a fact. Unless you think G and J will somehow let up."

With a long, shuddery sigh, Kae nods once, ducks her face down, and leaves the room, taking care to snick the door quietly closed behind her.

Three days later K requests she be transferred from the House.


	54. Training

**AN: OMG, so glad to have finished this chapter. It was the last one I came up with, and I had a heck of a time deciding what I wanted it to be about. One last little spot of humor before the final stretch, which is mostly pretty angsty, and all written except for the final chapter. Huzzah! So expect those in the next day or two.**

* * *

54. Training

"I SAID THE _BRAKE_!" Hopkins roars as the car goes careening around the empty car park.

"WOOOO! But it's more fun this way!" Jordan whoops, then sags in disappointment as the old man stomps down on the trainer's emergency brake and brings them to a screeching halt.

"Awwwwww, come on!"

"It's not supposed to be _fun_, laddie buck, it's supposed to get you where you're goin'!"

"Well, we WERE getting where we were goin' before you stopped us," J points out.

"No more of that lip! Now let's do it again, and this time I don't want to see that meter going over 25 kph!" Hopkins barks, jamming his hat (a rather squashed-looking green affair with a faded orange lure hanging from the brim) more firmly down on his bald head.

"_TWENTY-FIVE_?" he protests, dismayed. "_SNAILS_ are gonna be passing us!"

"Well if you're so worried about them, then you better use your turn signal so those snails know where you're going."

"Good thing we not ACTUALLY goin' anywhere, we'd gotta leave alla five hours early just to get back to the House afore dark," Jordan grumbles, jerking the stubborn gear shift back into first.

"A little slower probably won't hurt," comes Lazlo's strained voice from the back seat.

Jordan glances back over his shoulder, grinning. Lazlo and Faris are both wide-eyed and tight-mouthed, gripping the seat. The way he figures it, he had to tolerate THEIR putt-putt driving—first Lo and his ridiculously precise turns and agonizing over every little wobble of the steering wheel, and then Faris crawling along so slowly that it was probably the slight downhill slope of the car park and not his actual foot on the accelerator that was keeping them moving at all. It's not going to kill them to do things HIS way for a little bit.

"KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD WHEN YOU'RE DRIVING!"

They swerve (the slowest and least dramatic swerve EVER, Jordan thinks, which certainly doesn't justify the sounds of alarm coming from the back seat) and jerk to another stop as Hopkins, with a great deal more speed than one would expect from him, simultaneously brakes and yanks J face-forward again by the ear.

"OW! Hopkins, we in the middle of a GIGANTIC abandoned car park. Million miles on EVERY SIDE and nothing to hit, what difference it make?"

"Our lives?" Lazlo suggests irritably under his breath.

"Which HELLO, aren't at RISK here—"

"It's still a good habit to get into, so keep your damn eyes on the environment and off the peanut gallery back there!" Hopkins interrupts.

"Peanut gallery?" Lazlo objects.

"Clap your traps shut back there, this is a driving lesson, not a tea party! If you don't have anything to say that's not about driving or automobiles, I don't want to hear it. Now keep your eyes on the road, lad, and drive the way I tell you and not like some hooligan tripping acid on the Autobahn!"

Matron Marta, Jordan thinks as he stifles a snigger and struggles with the gearshift again, would probably fry Hopkins alive if she ever observed his teaching style in practice. Or at the very least go storming to the Warden to demand that Addison or one of the aides take them driving instead, which, really, would be too bad. Despite the old man's harshness and general distrust of all things that have been invented since he was thirty (which Jordan figures is like, EVERYTHING other than dirt and cars), Hopkins often proves to be a gold mine of interesting and useful information and hilarity. The best advice tends to come when he starts off with a scoff and the leading line, 'Let me tell you something about _, laddie buck!' A week after the fact, J still cries with laughter whenever he remembers their first driving lesson and F's scarlet face when Hopkins graced them all with his 'Let me tell you something about women' lecture.

"I wasn't goin' THAT fast," Jordan says, hoping to distract the groundskeeper as the speedometer eases upward again. "Besides, Gao said THEY got to do car chase simulations! When we gonna do THAT, eh?"

"When you can pay attention and get the basics right!"

"What, I know where the brakes ARE, I think I got the brains to figure it out—"

"Don't think I don't notice you speeding up, SLOW IT DOWN! And let me tell you something about brains, boys," Hopkins growls. "Turn left, laddie buck. And use your SIGNAL! Brains are only as good as the use you put them to. I once knew this corporal, not much older than you young twigs—"

What follows is a rambling and rather bloody story peppered with the sort of language that Ma Marta considers to be best removed with soap and several blaring directional commands at Jordan.

"—splattered all over the bunker! And a shitload of good his brains did him there! Common sense, boys. They teach you common sense in classes?"

Neither Lazlo nor Faris, who are looking a little green (whether from Jordan's driving or Hopkins's story is not entirely clear), seem about to risk being sick by opening their mouths, so Jordan answers, "Nope!"

"Damn straight they don't! Because you can't learn it in class, you've got to experience it. Brains _and_ common sense, you remember that!" Hopkins punctuates this assertion with a hard-knuckled rap on the dashboard. "Point is, when you're behind the wheel, PAY ATTENTION!"

"You betcha," J agrees blithely, letting his foot sink down on the accelerator again.


	55. Rosemary

55. Rosemary

Near is home.

Socked feet hooked over the stool rungs, he works slowly through the monstrous pile of rosemary that needs de-stemming. He still hates being put to work at menial tasks, but at least he has grown enough that Constance doesn't have to get him a box and lift him up onto the seat anymore.

It's strange being back. Two and a half years he's been living in a world of metal and plastic and cold floors and blue-white fluorescent lighting and agents and the constant threat of sudden death. Near didn't think he had changed much until he actually stepped over the threshold: back into a world of stained glass and wood banisters and tea with scones and the eager arms of people who not only have never taken orders from him but who taught him to do up his buttons and put band-aids on his nicked fingers when he was a toddler. The moment he reentered that world he felt like those two and a half years had somehow turned _him_ into a thing of metal and plastic and cold fluorescence. He doesn't quite fit anymore.

Near has always had it in his mind that the House could never change either, not significantly. He needs it to be the same. He's grasping for consistency and constancy, because Mello's death is far, far too bone-deep, root-ripping of a change.

But it _has_ changed, despite all his wishing otherwise, and it's the combination of the same and the different that he finds most jarring. His room is almost exactly he left it—the clothes in his dresser even still fit (they were freshly laundered and folded, too, something he barely noticed until after his talk in the garden with Roger, when the unsettling notion occurred to him that Marta had planned for his return to make him personally feel welcome and not just as a matter of logistics). But most of the uppercase letters are gone now, along with a few scattered lowercase letters who were older when they entered the House, and Roger is not nearly as aggressive in recruiting new students as Mr. W was. The relative silence of the place is stifling. Near never felt that he needed any of them as individuals, but now that the mass of them are gone, he wishes they were back just so things would feel normal.

Extra hands are still always appreciated in the kitchen, though, despite the fact that there are fewer mouths to feed these days. That much hasn't changed. With the Kira case over, no longer trumping every other personal consideration, his overactive mind is left with nothing to think about but…well, things he'd rather not think about. So here he is, trying to find that same hurt-dulling comfort that he used to find here as a boy.

There are footsteps in the doorway behind him and a half-familiar voice calls out, "Cookie?" Then, "Oh. Uh, it's you."

"Sember," Near acknowledges listlessly, not turning around.

Roger managed to dredge him up out of the dark depression that seized him after Kira's defeat (he thinks, with little interest, that Lidner and Rester were concerned he might simply starve himself to death, in those black several days when the iron struts of discipline and necessity that held him up through the case gave way and left him staring at walls from sheer tiredness and his aching dread of an uncertain future), but he's exhausted, and hollow, and grieving, and the last thing he feels like doing is talking.

"I, um. Ah…is Cookie around?"

"They're all delivering tea trays. I expect she will return momentarily."

"Well. Uh. I guess I'll just, uh, wait here then."

That doesn't really deserve a response. He picks up the next sprig of rosemary and continues in his task.

To his annoyance, S sits down at the table across from him, drumming his fingers nervously on the wooden surface. Just as suddenly he self-consciously stops. Then,

"Good _God_. You look absolutely terrible. Have you been eating properly?"

At this wildly inappropriate intrusion, he looks up through his fringe and gives Sember a dull, unfriendly stare to communicate that any further attempts at conversation, and especially of anything so personal, are wholly unwelcome. S is examining him with a frown, and doesn't seem to notice.

"Yes, you're definitely looking anemic," the other young man goes on clinically. "Probably an iron deficiency. You should consider taking vitamins or talking to the nutrit—"

"Sember," Near interrupts, "please stop talking."

"Oh. Right, uh. Sorry. Habit." Sember shifts in his seat, looking at the floor and the ceiling and everything in between except for Near. He's gotten big, Near notes critically—still a bit chubby, but also _big, _tall and broad and generally a large man. He would probably be quite imposing if he wasn't so nervous. Near is used to Rester towering over him, but the agent has a good twenty years on him at least. It seems quite ridiculous (and slightly unfair) that someone his own age should be so _big._

With a quiet snort, Near returns his attention to what he's doing. It only lasts for about ten seconds.

"Look, uh, I know you don't really give a damn what I think, but um, I'm leaving in an hour, and, well, I—I doubt we'll see each other after this. So…thanks. And I'm sorry," Sember says very quickly, as though he's determined to get it all out before Near tells him to shut up again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Near says flatly, stripping a stem in one irritated motion.

"Well, I mean, you know. Kira. You destroyed a tyrant. That deserves the thanks of anyone who wants to live in a free society," Sember mumbles, picking at some invisible speck on the tabletop. "And. Um. I, uh, I heard about—about M…. And I'm sorry. For your loss."

"Insincerity suits you far worse than your usual drivel."

For several moments Sember does not reply, and Near thinks that his intentionally harsh response has accomplished what he hoped and S will finally leave him alone. Then he says, quietly, "I wasn't. Being insincere, I mean."

Near is aware that he's _sickeningly_ sincere. He's aware and it pains him. He's already broken down once over Mello's death, and it was a draining and humiliating experience that he has no desire or intention to repeat. Being reminded by every damn person who feels obligated to express their unwanted sympathy is about as helpful as being whacked in the stomach with a sledgehammer every few hours. Not for the first time, Near half-wishes he could get away with just locking himself in his room again and sleeping for several more days, or go back to his old HQ in New York where nobody seems to think they have a right to be so damn personal.

Dropping a handful of rosemary into the bowl, he laces his fingers and regards the other narrowly. "You have never liked Mello. And he and I were not friends."

"Maybe not, but you two were always…well…close. I don't have to like _either_ of you to offer condolences."

"I did not ask for your condolences."

"Well, I've given them anyway," Sember says a little crossly. Throughout the whole conversation he hasn't met Near's glare, but continues to dig at the wooden tabletop. "You needn't make like it some terrible insult, jeez. That just what people do."

"People invent far too many empty rituals for the sake of the illusion of altruism. We'd be better off as a society if we abandoned such meaningless gestures," Near mutters, picking out another rosemary stem.

"No we wouldn't. They're there for a reason. You're wrong, Near. About people, about—a lot of things."

Near stares at him. Sember stares back, looking a little shocked at his own outburst, a slow flush crawling up his plump cheeks.

"How many years have you been waiting to say that?" Near wonders out loud, though he's not particularly interested. He's _not _wrong, and it doesn't surprise him that the other boy disagrees. But he didn't expect Sember would ever voice that opinion.

"Well. Um." Sember fidgets with his glasses. "I didn't exactly, uh, _plan_ on saying it."

"Hm," says Near noncommittally, privately amused at S's discomfort.

At that moment Constance returns and Near finally gets a little peace, though his ears are still assaulted by S and Cookie's chatter. From their talk he gleans that Sember has just been visiting the House for a few weeks between finishing his residency and starting a fellowship at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. Leaving for good…for now.

Near wonders how many of the other graduates have returned, drawn back by the gravity of the House or driven back by the alien atmosphere of Outside. It's a culture that Near doubts exists anywhere else, and despite never having had much use for the other boy, there's some resonance between them, the same resonance that can be found in any child of Wammy's House. Neither Lidner nor Rester, much as he depends on them, would ever dare tell him they thought he was downright _wrong_, however strongly they may have felt it.

In a rare moment of self-understanding, it occurs to Near that though he probably won't always be as miserable as he is now, he's never going to be quite content, because he can't tolerate being close to people but he can't tolerate being alone, either, and the few whose proximity he _can _bear for more than a minute are precious, precious few and mostly dead. Fatalistic acceptance comes almost as quickly as the realization.

After hugs and final goodbyes, Constance bustles back to work, barking orders at the assistants starting to trickle back into the kitchen, and Sember heads out, giving Near an awkward nod as he passes.

"Good luck, S."

The footsteps pause. "…Thanks, N," says Sember. "You too."


	56. Grab

**AN: I ended up making this a lot less graphic than was my initial intent, largely because I didn't want to have to bump the rating for the sake of one chapter out of 60. Despite this I'd like to throw in a warning for implied references to rape, prostitution, semi-graphic violence, and some thematic elements that may be offensive. Tbh I feel like those first two are topics that are treated far too cavalierly in fanfiction as a genre and almost did not incorporate them for exactly that reason, but on second thought I figured pretending something doesn't exist doesn't make it go away. So I hope that this doesn't come across as frivolous or as something bent for shock value. /soapbox I'd also like to make clear that views expressed by characters are not necessarily my own, etc. **

* * *

56. Grab

For years Xie has dreamed about the red-paneled walls and gritty-plush carpets of the 'massage parlor' in Phuket. They used to be nightmares, with hands grabbing and pulling and—

X breathes out hard through her nose. Her muscles are relaxed but she's tense like a coiled spring, prepared to strike with perfect force and discipline at the right trigger. Clean lines, controlled movement, clean emotions and controlled thoughts. She isn't the frightened, helpless little girl she was then, not awake here in the House and not in her dreams of the dark, musky upper rooms of the massage parlor.

She dreamt about it last night again. Or at least, she thinks she did. It has become hard to distinguish what is played out by her subconscious deep mind and what is deliberately guided fantasy. They always start the same, the heavy curtains and low voices and the disgusting odors of sweat and sickly-sweet incense and man-stench. But they don't end with her waking in a flurry of terror and pain and self-loathing anymore, not for Xie.

In the early hours of the morning today she dreamt or daydreamed that she killed a man.

He came to her, had paid for her, and when he reached for her she calmly and systematically broke his face and shattered his teeth and kicked his nose back into his sinus cavity, and left him with what was left of his head seeping in and blending with the dusky red carpets and walked out into open air, free, free, and woke gradually and pleasantly and thinking that she ought to go bathe before Marta scolded her for getting bloody handprints all over her nice clean sheets.

Since she was brought to the House, everyone has been told not to touch Xie, especially not boys. At first it was because she was afraid. It made her skittish, panicky. It made her cry. Now nobody touches her out of habit. Xie doesn't think it would scare her now, but she doesn't say anything. She still doesn't want their hands on her.

The truth is, she's not afraid of men. Not anymore.

X _loathes_ them.

All of them. Disgusting, slavering pigs, the lot of them, bristle-fleshed and rank. Age, race, doesn't matter. She'd seen them all in the massage parlor, dark and light and fat and thin and old and young, beggars off the street who got lucky and found a couple extra _baht_ to cop a feel and rich tourists from overseas with wives and children at home. Lower than animals, since Xie likes animals more than she likes most people—because animals take what they need to survive and nothing more.

The only exempt were Kiet, who risked his life and ultimately lost it to get her out of that hellhole, and Mr. W, who Xie reckons was probably some sort of angel and not a man, and now he's dead too. Which leaves the nations of earth populated half with humans and half with a festering genetic disease caused by the Y chromosome, as far as Xie is concerned.

She can't say anything, though, not here, and doesn't dare. It would be disrespectful to Mr. W, who believed in equality, and worked hard to make it a reality in his House; and her tentative hints to other girls have uncovered no glimmer that anyone else can see what she does, that there is no such thing as a good man, or a civilized man. But men are more openly savage on the Outside. It's better to bide her time here, at least until she's an adult. So she tolerates them, and waits.

* * *

Xie doesn't remember, later, what exactly was said, or the blow-by-blow details of what happened, because her reaction was so swift and automatic that she barely thought; she does remember Vince being his usual annoying self and ignoring whatever cheery greeting he was unnecessarily offering her as they passed each other in the hall, and a door opening unexpectedly, resulting in a jostling that, in retrospect, was almost certainly accidental, since V surely knew better.

And then suddenly hands _everywhere, _grabbing and pulling her away and making her scream out loud in shock and outrage, because no one has _dared_ manhandle her in such a way. As Matron Marta hugs her arms firmly to her sides and an aide catches at her flailing feet, Xie registers peripherally that others are kneeling down to Vince, who's sunk down against the wall in a crumpled pile, and her own knuckles and heels are sticky with blood.

A stinging prick in her shoulder, and all is dark.

* * *

She wakes not to dirty red walls and sticky heat, but to the sterile smell of the infirmary and the damp, cool binding of a rollywrap and a muffled voice murmuring in the darkness.

"...tho that'th dot too bad," it's saying. "I dod' thik that'th godda bake a differeth to Bull though. I got a feelid' there'th dot buth I cad do about that."

With effort, Xie turns her face toward the voice. It makes her head reel, spinning and spinning even though her neck has stopped moving. Whatever they've dosed her with is strong. She's dizzy and muzzy and has difficulty focusing her eyes on the dark figure sitting two beds away.

"Oh," Vince says, cracking a weak smile, a broken sliver of white against his black face. "You're awake. Are you feelid better?"

_He_ looks terrible, worse than Xie feels, even, and that's saying something. One arm is in a sling over his chest and there are bandages over his nose and one of his eyes. She thinks she can make out stitches on his brow, too, but it's hard to tell in the darkness with her vision swimming the way it is.

Hot fear and anger explodes from her chest and rushes down to her toes and fingers. Xie has high-level belts in four different martial arts forms, but all of that experience and discipline and ability does her exactly no good whatsoever with her arms and legs pinned by the rollywrap. Instead of fighting back when she's free to defend herself he's come while she's helpless, in the middle of the night, to exact his revenge. Typical cowardly man! Tears of frustration squeeze out the corners of her eyes and trickle down her temples.

"I gueth dot," V says, and it's the saddest she's ever heard him sound. But he doesn't sound angry at all, and he's not coming over to smother her with a pillow or hit her while she's tied down, just sitting on the far side of the other bed, trying to smile.

"Why…are you here," Xie manages.

"Well, Berity tol' be to thtay id the other roob," says Vince, shrugging a little then wincing. "But I figured if you woke up you bight be codfoothed add thcared tho I thought thob-wod thould be here jutht in cathe. I probith I'b dot godda cob over there or adythig."

"You better not," she croaks. She can move her fingers, and her feet, a little, but that's it. Verity sure knows how to immobilize her patients, Xie thinks. With all the kids around here who snap and try to hurt themselves, either intentionally or not, she probably has a lot of experience. Then, in a flowering burst of cold anxiety, it dawns on her that it's probably not X that the nurse was trying to protect.

"I thaid I would'det."

"What gonna happen now?" Xie asks with a sharp intake of breath, ignoring his reassurance. The hard facts of the situation are slowly making themselves clear to her even through the druggy, muddled haze. She let her mask slip. She attacked another student—and did a pretty good number on him, by the looks of it. Never mind that he's male, and therefore deserved it. The House won't see it that way. The Warden won't see it that way.

"I'b really thorry, Thie," Vince says quietly. "I tried to 'thplain to the Bull add the Warded that you were jutht upthet cuth I bupped you, but I dod't thik…."

"Just go away! Leave me alone!" she gasps, writhing against the taut fabric. No. No, it can't end this way. Not scrubbed, not sent to the Outside. Not for something like this. "Get _out_!"

"I'll go get Berity," V says, slipping off the bed and disappearing into the darkness. Sobbing, Xie struggles, but she can't move. She's stronger than this. She's not supposed to be scared anymore.


	57. Still

57. Still

Her world has become a quieter place as of late.

It has never been quiet, not really. Not being able to talk means Icarus spends a lot more time listening, both to what people say and to what they do not say. All of it compounds into a lot of white noise, white in the sense of all colors together.

Sometimes it can be almost overwhelming, though she knows it is never as bad for her as it was for Even. Icarus hears more than most with her ears if she listens intently, but E heard things without trying to with her hands and her memory and her heartbeat, things hanging silently and things that had been said and things that would be said. As sad as it made her, Icarus was not surprised when Dex wrote her that they had tracked their old classmate down only to find she had killed herself years ago. The things that are left unsaid around here jangle and sway like a sea of windchimes. She can't imagine what it must be like Out there.

Many of the people she used to listen for are gone now. Dex and Hopper and Concord are in Sweden, thriving in their startup company. Kae abandoned the program just as Even did shortly prior to D and H's graduation. Gao and Jitter and Linda technically still live here, but are almost never home; Lin is in Prague today at a gallery fundraiser, and G and J are on the Continent, searching for Fallon. Even Alt is almost silent these days, barely audible and fading at the edges as those who remember him scatter Outward. Icarus is the last of her generation.

Walking the grounds in the early morning, the mist hushed and muffling and the House not yet woken and the birds fled from the chill of late fall, Icarus feels almost as though she walks through a dream, or in a monastery garden. Once a very long time ago, before the terrible nightmare months that she has long since buried in the twilit depths of her mind, her parents brought her to visit a monastery, where she wandered the pools and rock gardens, listening in on the rising and falling of chants and obediently avoiding the silent figures with folded legs, deep in meditation. At the time Jie Min, the naïve little girl, found it dull. Now, Icarus, the scarred young woman, thinks a life of solitude and safety behind stone walls is not so undesirable a thing.

She hears the sound of footsteps swishing in the dead grass long before she can make out the figure in the mist.

Just because she has chosen to linger here does not mean she has not kept in contact with her friends. Concord told her yesterday that she was on her way home. Their HQ was visited by a Japanese policeman, and Icarus confirmed that Winchester, too, has been hit up for information about L's heirs. Obviously it's a huge breach of security, and no matter how badly they fight amongst themselves, Insiders come before Outsiders. Much as she despised the Twins, C would never betray either M or N to some unLettered murdering wormbait, either purposely or through inaction.

Enforced silence gives Icarus a lot of time for thinking as well as listening, however, and Icarus knows Concord's skills well enough to know that she's perfectly capable of doing the upgrades to the security system remotely, and sending a courier with any hardware components for Chegal to assemble. It's not necessary for her to come in person. This visit, she thinks, is more personal than professional. Maybe some of it is homesickness, maybe C needs closure from a place that she left in anger.

But probably, Icarus suspects, a lot of it has to do with her.

Concord joins her at the gate. Instead of a jacket she's wrapped herself up in an old quilt, and like Icarus, she's barefoot despite the cold. It's just like old times, when they used to sneak out at night to wander the yard in their pajamas. Smiling a little despite herself, Icarus greets her, signing a C. After returning a signed I and a moment of hesitation, Concord hugs her; awkwardly, which is unsurprising, since neither of them are given to affection.

But then C mumbles into her shoulder, "It's good to be back, _meimei_," and it makes Icarus wish all of them could just stay here forever.

They barely even have to ask Constance if they can have a breakfast tray to take upstairs. She happily loads them up with more fresh-baked bread and jam and fruit and coffee than they know what to do with, along with a hefty dose of hugs and some strong hints that she and the rest of the staff have been wondering whether or not Concord and Dex are planning to bake their own batch of new little buns any time soon. By the time the old chef lets them go, poor C's face is blazing redder than a traffic light.

_Cedar or sandalwood? _ Icarus signs once they get back to her room.

To her pleasant surprise, Concord waits to put down the tray and signs back, _Either one is fine. When did you start burning incense?_

_I quit smoking. Incense makes it easier, _she replies wryly, and pauses to light the incense wand. _You're getting fluent._

_Amos and Daniel are better at it than I am, _Concord admits, and goes on before Icarus has a chance to quite process that, _You're almost nineteen. You can't stay here forever. If you don't have other plans, you should come live in Stockholm with us. We have spare rooms and everything._

It sometimes amazes her, how C unwittingly says things in a way that is feather-soft on the ears and yet as artlessly blunt as a club cracking over your skull. Icarus looks away, which in a conversation like this might as well be plugging her ears. She wonders if the unLettered assume that because Concord is shy and quiet, that she is also subtle when she has business to get down to. If they do, she pities them—an attitude she has often toward Outsiders.

But that's a tangent, and she more or less knew this was why C had come, so she pulls her focus back outward. The others want her to come be with them, they're brushing up on their sign language in the expectation that she will—an accommodation that is more thoughtful than necessary, given that she's mute, not deaf. Outside is calling.

_Roger offered me a permanent staff position here, _she finally says.

"He did?" Concord says, startled out of silence. She seems annoyed by her own outburst, and continues pouring sugar into her coffee, gesturing for her to go on. Icarus winces a little at the amount of sugar she's using, taking a sip of her own black coffee then setting it back down.

_Chegal is thinking about starting over again in Hong Kong within the next two years. They'll need a replacement._

_And?_

Icarus hesitates. _I was strongly considering it._

_Because you want to stay, or because you don't want to leave?_

She eyes the older girl suspiciously, hearing the faint impression of the words as Concord signs them like a baritone echo. _Daniel told you to say that, didn't he._

At that, C can't help but smile a little, confessing, _Yes. I didn't think you'd be convinced I thought of something like that._

She's irritated, though, and Concord's attempt at self-deprecating humor doesn't do much to help. _It's not the same for me as it is for you, _she says, her bitterness showing through in the jerkiness of her movements. _You have your work, and Daniel. _She gestures at the ring on Concord's left hand. _You have a face. You can look like you belong. You could never understand what being out there would be like for me._

Concord bites her lip, and Icarus can't help thinking (even though she knows she's being unfair) that Dex and Hopper made a mistake in letting C come alone to try to convince her to leave. Not that they could do much else to persuade her, but between the two of them they'd at least come up with a half dozen semi-decent arguments. Her time Outside has not made 'Bethany' any better at confrontation than she was when they were kids. She wonders if their reasoning was that she would feel less threatened with C, feel more sympathy, give more ground to avoid disappointing her.

The other girl's struggle is clear; she lifts her hands and start to sign, then hesitates, then tries again and stops, because she doesn't know what to say, or how to say it. Icarus thinks harshly that it's because she is right and there is no argument—but it's not true, really. C almost never knows what to say, even when she knows exactly where she stands. In her own way she's almost as much of a mute as Icarus. Abruptly she feels guilty as Concord finally drops her hands into her lap.

_Damn you, Dex, _Icarus thinks. _Far too clever by half._

"I don't really know how to persuade you," C mumbles to her hands. "I know…I know leaving is hard—and I know I don't really understand," she adds quickly. "But, I mean…we all really miss you and…we think we've found Fallon. In Amsterdam. And they—I mean, G and J—were talking about maybe setting up nearby, in Switzerland or something…then we'd all be really close to each other and…well—I mean—if you wanted to come too…it could be just like old times, you know? Well, not really like old times—but, um, sort of…." Frustrated, Concord shakes her head and tries to start over again. "Everyone else is leaving, and I hate to see you left alone here—I mean, not that we left you behind, but…oh, shit." She winces. "This isn't really helping, is it."

It is, quite possibly, the longest speech she has ever heard C voluntarily make.

But as bad at Concord is at talking, Icarus is an excellent listener, and what she's hearing is, _We could all be family together. We could all band together Outside. You're one of us, and we need you with us._

Now she's more undecided than ever. _I'll think about it, _she signs, and feels another stab of anxious guilt when C's face lights up hopefully.


	58. Crushed

58. Crushed

It was a humiliating experience for both of them, reading the feedback report on their first coordinated project—_unfocused_, the professor had written, _lacking a coherent theme, _and_ examples have little or nothing to do with the thesis statement_. Much worse than the professor's disappointed frown or sharp comments, though, was how all the other students had gone about with an extra bounce in their steps and smirks on their faces when the word spread that Mello and Near had gotten the worst marks on the Rhetorical Analysis midterm paper by a margin of nearly 30%.

Their bruised egos aren't any better at compromising, but they've learned that they have to at least put up a façade of a unified front.

So now, months later, they end up discussing an upcoming assignment behind Hopkins' shed not through consensus, but because they've been backed into a corner. Even the ever-patient Addison got fed up with their bickering and kicked them out of the library. Near doesn't want Mello wrecking the marble rails he's got set up in his room and Mello just doesn't want Near in his room, period. There are other project groups from their criminology class in the computer lab and the common room and even the game room and they're being unbearable. Even Isabel and Qarri have been making a show of being outrageously polite to each other whenever the Twins are in earshot just to rub their noses in how badly they work together.

That pretty much leaves the yard, and Raina's got the afternoon group out for Physical Torment on the football pitch. Near hates being out of doors and Mello would rather be at a computer so he can complain to Matt by Housemail while they debate, but this is the only spot within the walls where they can snap at each other without anyone else listening in and snickering at their situation.

"This whole thing is stupid," Mello fumes, kicking at an innocent tuft of grass.

Yawning hugely, Robosapien observes his outburst disdainfully, then closes her eyes again. He scowls at the cat. He's grown to hate the little white hairball as much as, if not more than, its owner. "Who ever heard of co-authoring a personal opinion paper? I swear, Roger just likes coming up with new ways to punish me."

Near has to restrain an exasperated sigh. Half the reason why they have so much difficulty working together, he often thinks, is because Mello wastes so much of their time wallowing in self-pity that he's stuck with his rival. It doesn't hurt his feelings, not especially. His so-called rival abandoned their friendship a long time ago, and he got over it a long time ago. Ultimately the fact that Mello has no choice but to cooperate with him is much more reassuring to Near than if the other boy claimed he wanted to. But listening to him gripe is starting to grate on even _his_ nerves—and that's saying something.

On the other hand, he does have a point.

"It's a transparent attempt to force us to cooperate," Near agrees, picking at a blade of grass and tying it in knots. "However, that the standard we evaluated by. Trying to evade it only reflect poorly on both of us."

Mello shoots him a bitter look; he didn't say it, but he gets the distinct impression that what the younger boy means is, '_you're_ reflecting poorly on _me_.'

"Anyhow, I doubt Roger make those kinda decision. Prob'ly L pass it down," Near adds as an afterthought.

This assumption couldn't be more wrong, Mello knows, but Near can't know that; he hasn't met L, as Mello has. As overwhelmed as he was by the investigator's perception and intelligence, on this one point he was utterly disillusioned: L doesn't give a damn about them, much less the succession. Unless he manages to pull out some truly spectacular accomplishment, Mello has to deal with Roger, and the old man's incomprehensible favoring of Near.

But instead he snaps, "You sound like an idiot, talking like that," because his meeting with L is a secret, and he likes having something to hide from his rival, something that might give him an edge.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Near's mouth as he replies primly, "Alla ever'body Inside jabba so, M, why you buggin'?"

Grinding his teeth, Mello starts pacing back and forth, as far from Near as he can be without leaving the cool shade of the garden shed. His rival only does that to annoy him, he's perfectly capable of talking properly, Mello knows this yet somehow it still drives him nuts to hear such ridiculous ungrammatical things come from the mouth of someone who routinely bests his academic scores.

Correction. _Bested_. Now they have to share almost all of their scores.

Stupid Roger.

As the telltale signs of a Mello tantrum start working up, Near _does _sigh out loud and says, "We need a topic. What an opinion we got in common?"

"We don't _have_ any opinions in common," snarls Mello.

For a brief moment Near experiences a powerful urge to trip his counterpart. "That ridiculous, Mello. Way too many things to have opinions about that we differ on _all_ of them. Don't exaggerate."

"Well you name something then, if you're so smart!"

It used to be a triumph for Mello when Near started to get so bent out of shape that he actually _sounded_ irate. Over the last several months of forced contact, however, Mello is learning that his unexpressive rival displays a few different emotions that in anyone else would be anger: annoyed, bored, and annoyed _and _bored. The first amuses him—nothing is as funny as Near when someone or something has genuinely gotten under his skin, pushing him to the point where he starts breaking his own toys. The second, when Near just shuts out whatever is irritating him, is infuriating. The third, however, is downright exasperating, because the passive little brat becomes _actively _bratty, and Mello has no option now but to stick around and put up with a rival who alternately glares at him in stubborn silence and deliberately tries to piss him off.

He's doing his stubborn-bored-annoyance-glare now, fed up with trying to keep this mockery of a study session going when Mello's not holding up his end.

"I've sure got an opinion about this place and the ass-backward way they run things," the older boy grumbles, turning his back on Near and kicking at another clump of grass.

Near doesn't even bother to hide his eye-roll. "It what L and Mr. W think the best way."

"If that's what you want to think," says Mello, then mutters under his breath, "sycophant."

"What reason you have to think otherwise?" Now Near is starting to get curious. It's not the first time today Mello's said it. It must come from somewhere.

Eyeing him sidelong, Mello scoffs out a humorless laugh. "What reason do you have to believe L _does_ has any interest in us?"

"We his successors," he points out flatly. He feels he's stating the obvious. He can't imagine where Mello is going with this, so he thinks this conversation is not as interesting as he first thought it might be. They're wasting time, and his quick spike of curiosity is quickly dying.

"You," Mello says matter-of-factly, "are a naïve little idiot." Flinging himself down in the grass, he presses his hands to his face and lets out a muffled growl of aggravation. "Ok! Topic! Now!"

"Do you admire L?"

"_What_?" Hand exploding away from his face, Mello's cock-eyed glare is almost comical. That's more like it, Near thinks, and tucks the foot he was poking the cat with underneath himself. He has gotten accustomed to the animal, but Mello is far more interesting than Robosapien.

When he's not complaining, that is.

Near shrugs. "I was under the impression you admire him. But it seems you don't."

"Who cares what I think of L?" Mello snaps.

"Regardless of his attitude toward us, we both his potential successors. We must have some commonality there. Possibly one that translate to a topic," Near reasons.

"Well we can't write a criminal justice opinion paper about the greatest detective who ever lived!"

"Why not?"

"Because he's not a criminal, he's—_L_," Mello says, exasperated; now he's the one stating the obvious. Why can't Near get off his case? One minute he's complaining about how they're not working, the next he's going off on stupid tangents like this.

"Well he still relevant to criminology, _da_? You just don't want to talk about him."

"Stop putting words in my mouth, Near! Stop being so—so—_you_!"

They lapse into an angry silence, Near reflecting crossly on the contradiction in himself (he doesn't want Mello to ignore him, but _jeez_, he can be so infuriating to be around!), and Mello fuming over Roger's nerve in yoking them together like this.

"Damn Roger," he finally mutters to himself out loud, and Near tilts his head slightly.

"Your focus is misdirected," the younger boy says dispassionately, because he's still annoyed too, and he knows it will piss his counterpart off. "He just a puppet of L."

"Hah!" Mello barks out, and retorts bitterly, "You only defend him because you're his favorite."

Plucking idly at the clover flowers at the base of the shed, Near sighs, "Don't be so near-sighted, Mello. It doesn't suit you."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Mello demands, turning on him. "_Everybody_ knows he favors you, you rotten little brat."

"You lack of perception can be truly astonishing at times," Near says boredly, slumping a little against the shed wall and knotting his clover blossoms into a chain. "Everybody say _both_ of us favored for the succession." Tossing the chain to the side, he gives Mello a pointed glance and goes on, "Why else would they be forcing us to cooperate on projects like this? Eventually you have to come to terms with—"

"No," Mello snarls, pacing again. "Roger has _always_ helped you cheat over me. Don't pretend he hasn't." He knows he's starting to get worked up now, and he almost always ends up regretting how much he lets slip when he's upset; clenching his fists, he attempts to rein in his resentment. It doesn't work. "He probably wants me as backup in case anything ever happens to the precious number one," he goes on, the suspicions he's been harboring for months tumbling out against his will. "Probably hopes you'll make me more like _you_."

This last is spat out like a mouthful of poison.

Near can't help it; at this absurd idea, he actually scoffs. "That just paranoia. Even for you, M."

"_Is it_?" Now he's shouting. The fact that someone might hear them is shoved out of his mind by his anger. He becomes aware of the pricking of tears at his eyes, and that makes him even madder—he's not _upset_ by this belief, just mad at the injustice of it! Right?

The younger boy doesn't even look up at him as he rants; he's tickling Robosapien's tail with a long piece of grass. Just one more thing that adds to Mello's fury. "You better hope I'm right, Near, because your theory would _never_ work. We'll never be L together. They can't force me to work with you forever—and Roger won't be there to watch us forever. Eventually, someday, I'd find a way to get rid of you."

"You wouldn't kill me," Near says softly. "Not even for the title."

"No, I wouldn't," Mello hisses. "That would make you a victim, wouldn't it? And everyone would feel so sorry for that poor little Near, who went just the same way Alternate did. Nobody cared about him until _he_ died either. No, my naïve little _Twin_, I'd lock you away somewhere where no one would ever see you again and everyone would go on and forget you ever existed, and you would count yourself lucky if anyone remembered your cell was occupied often enough to keep you from _starving_!"

And he can see it and it's delicious—in the way Near's mouth tenses and he curls into himself just a little tighter—he's managed to land a blow that actually hurts. Just barely frowning, the younger boy watches the cat roll over to its other side and continue to sleep.

"You wouldn't forget me," he finally says, detachedly.

"Wouldn't I?" Mello sneers. "Maybe I would do a lot of things you don't think I could."

But that backfires on him. Near's mouth twists into a smirk.

"I've known you as long as you known me, Mello. I've had plenty of time to observe what you can and _can't_ do."

"Oh _have_ you now?" And then, impulsively, he drops his foot onto Robosapien's neck, not hard enough to hurt it, but so that it can't just slide out from under. The cat squirms lazily, but doesn't seem quite bothered enough to actually move. Mello can feel its pulse against the arch of his foot.

_What is _this_ supposed to prove?_ Near wonders, raising a quizzical brow.

_I'm going to wipe that complacent look right off his face_, Mello thinks.

He waits until that moment that Near's gaze locks with his, and then with all of the weight of his body and his resentment, the older boy shifts so that his heel is pressed to the animal's neck and comes down, hard.

Just the barest hint of a wince flashes over Near's face at the sickening crunch and the pained squeal, which is cut off as Mello grinds down viciously on his heel. Mello misses any other reaction the younger boy might have had, because their locked stares are broken by a horrified cry.

"Oh my God! What you _doing_?"

They both whirl around in alarm. Sember is peeking around the edge of the shed, blue eyes round with shock and disgust. As the two boys turn on him, his cheeks go from pink to scarlet, and he makes as though to run for it.

"Don't you dare _move_, S!" Mello snarls, and the younger boy freezes as though caught in a blast of ice.

"I'm sorry—I didn't—"

"You didn't see a _thing_, got it? And if you start getting confused and think you _did_ see something, I might slip up and tell someone what I know about _you!_"

As quickly as the blood rushed to Sember's face, it drains out again. "I—no, I wouldn't—you—you promised you wouldn't tell anyone—"

Near looks on with fascination. He has no idea what Mello and Sember are referring to, but this exchange is giving himan idea. A very, very interesting idea.

"Oh, I won't tell just _anyone_, S, don't you worry about that," Mello says silkily. "But let's see, maybe Crash would be interested. Or…how about Devon?"

"I won't say anything! I swear!" S cries out, now stark white in terror.

"Run along, then," Mello says with a dismissive gesture, feeling a little thrill of triumph as he turns back to his rival. The look on Near's face, however, quickly dispels it.

Near is smiling. And not an amused little quirk, either; he's really smiling, with teeth and all.

"No, he didn't see anything," he says quietly, still with that smile. "Because there was nothing to see. This was all just an accident."

"What are you talking about?" Mello says warily. This can't at all be good, and he feels his stomach flip over.

But Near is brimming with a terrible joy, because now his counterpart is firmly caught, bound to him as surely as though they were shackled together, and he'll won't be able to get away or turn his back on him. It is unfortunate that the cat was sacrificed to accomplish this, but he'd far rather have his counterpart than the stupid animal.

Near will never, ever get left behind again.

"We were talking about the criminology project, don't you remember?" he says. "You were pacing and you tripped and fell on Robosapien. What a terrible tragedy."

"Or," Near goes on, watching with restrained delight as Mello's brows furrow in mistrustful confusion, "I suppose we could tell the other version of the story—the one where you threatened to take me out just like B got rid of A, and killed an animal in cold blood just to prove you were capable of it."

"That's not what I said!" Mello says vehemently, veins freezing to ice, but it doesn't matter.

"Are you certain Roger wouldn't believe it? Concord has already compared you to Backup. If enough people say it, he can't ignore it forever. Eventually he would have to have you scrubbed. And what then? Is this a trend, Mello? Would you turn to crime deliberately, or would it just be…." He gestures to the cat's limp body. "Helpless outbursts of aggression? Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. I'd visit you every day in jail, you know, just to let you know what L was up to…so you wouldn't feel out of the loop. And nobody would ever forget how far you'd fallen."

"I hate you," the older boy breathes, feeling it more powerfully than he ever has in his entire life, because he's right. Even L has drawn a connection between himself and Beyond Birthday. Without even knowing it his rival can still create the perfect trap. Near just smiles.

"I don't expect you to like me," he says serenely. "Just to cooperate."


	59. Undone

**AN: Oh my, I can't begin to tell you how satisfying it is to finally be posting this-this was the seventh chapter I actually wrote, so I've been sitting on it forEVER. EhMa, I hope it lives up to your expectations :)

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59. Undone

Everything's in sharp-cut black and moonwhite and seeping-cold and the wet new-mown grass plasters to their bare feet and ankles, running and tripping and stumbling, shouting and gasping and Backup is laughing, laughing, laughing—

No. Not yet. This happens later.

In this moment, Even opens her eyes.

She is in a hallway.

She was sleeping, because it is night, and she has been told that is what she is supposed to do at night, but now she is awake. She is up because she had a bad feeling, and had to follow it.

Even doesn't know where the bad feelings come from. They just do. Kae calls it her "spidey sense". Even is not entirely sure what that means. She doesn't call it anything. Just follows when it comes.

Light seeps from under the boys' bathroom door.

That is where the bad is coming from.

"_Backup—it's Backup—"_

"_What! What he do? He hurt you?"_

"_Not me—"_

Even pushes open the bathroom door, drifts inside, the tile clammy-cool under her bare feet.

_Most merciful God—_

The tub is full of diluted blood.

—_we have sinned in thought, word, and deed—_

"Alt, Alt, wake up," Even whispers, she's never touched him and barely spoken to him before but she knows things by feeling and hearing and A can't speak right now so she's kneeling by his side and holding him and stroking his back and brushing his hair away from his white, white face, and there's no pulse because there's nothing left to run through his veins, and he has become clay.

—_by what we have done—_

"I'm sorry," she sighs, and it's true, she always tells the truth as well as she knows it, and here is a truth she never heard or felt….

"I'm fine," Alt says, looking hastily away and around, knowing he's being watched, "just tired." And he doesn't say with his voice the other things she hears, so it's easy to pretend she doesn't hear and doesn't know.

—_and by what we have left undone._

His shoulder and neck are not warm enough, but they're still warm. Even rests her cheek against his, slides her arm along his, dips her fingertips into the bloody water, and it's warm too. Soon, soon, or not long ago. They're the same thing to E.

And something is missing.

"Will it hurt?" Alt asks, his voice cracking.

"It won't hurt unless you deserve it," Backup says soothingly, guiding his hand, and God, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, making Even gasp.

"Alt," she croons into his hair, wet fingers skating along the tile and searching, "where's the knife? Can you tell me?"

There's nothing sharp, no razor blades, no broken glass, no knife, no nothing but the horrible gashes on his wrists, deep to the bone and greyish and puffy-edged from soaking in the water, with nothing that could have caused them.

Because the knife has been taken away. It's in _his _hand now, being dipped into a jam jar, E can hear it as though he were right behind her.

Abruptly the order of time and events becomes relevant, snapping jarringly into a line. She cannot grieve, not yet.

Her feet are moving faster than she is, and she follows them to Dex's room. It never occurs to her to get the matron. Hopper and Concord are there with him, all jumping up immediately, and she leads them after the bad feeling. They chase and jumble and rebound off walls and clatter down stairs in a tidal rush of fury and catch up to Backup and the jam- and blood-smeared knife in the kitchen.

And he's _changed _himself, deliberately changed himself to look on the outside like the bad Even always sensed coming from his insides, there's white paint on his face and black paint in his fair hair and sludged under his eyes, and his lips and tongue are gummy-scarlet with blood and strawberry jam.

Dex roars, louder than E has ever heard him, his calm firm voice become ragged-edged and hating and accusing, and Backup bolts out the back door. The jam jar shatters on the kitchen tiles, slippery and cutting.

"_You coward! You filthy, murdering COWARD—LET HER GO—"_

"_Watcha gonna do, Dexie? Gonna let me go or watch while I slice her a new breathing hole?"_

Concord is the fastest, catching up to him as they round the corner of the House and seizing his arm, blinded by tears and the unfamiliar adrenaline rush of taking any kind of action, and Dex is right behind and Hopper bellows after them

"_Watch out_—he still got the knife—!"

but it's too late for warnings and C cries out, would fall back but now it's Backup that has _her_ by the wrist, darkness blooming rapidly across her nightshirt. They both go down as D tackles B, shoving him into the grass by the shoulders and howling in incoherent fury and cocking back a fist then he shouts too in pain and shock, the fist falling instead to clutch at the bleeding stab wound.

"He's not worth dying for!" Hopper's screaming, skidding and dropping to his knees to keep Concord from getting back up, yanking his own shirt over his head and pressing it to her bloody middle, but Dex struggles to his feet and lurches onward as Even flits by him, following the badness.

They're at the gate.

"_Don't you touch her—don't you dare hurt her—"_

There was no plan or intent, just following, so when he grabs her there is no certainty of what to do, just his sticky handprints on her arms and neck and hot strawberry breath and the knife pressed to her throat, wet with Alt and Concord and Dex's blood, and the suffocating stink of badness.

"This your brilliant plan, Backup? You can't open the gate while you're holding onto her and I won't open it until you let her go, and all the noise is bound to have woken up someone. This standoff won't last long—you can't afford to wait around for the brass. Let go of her!"

"No," Backup snarls, all pretense of innocence stripped away, "the way this standoff goes is that if you don't open that bloody gate _right_ _now_, I'll cut her ears off, and if you _still _don't open it I'll carve her a pretty new face!"

And it's too much for the other, Dex is still just a boy and already laboring to breathe and fighting off shock and one bloody hand is clutching his side, and just as B presses harder on the knife the entryway windows of the House light, yellow squares blazing in the darkness.

As the front door bursts open and the adults come running out the sharp pressure at her neck disappears and she's shoved at Dex, throwing them both off balance to crumple on the pavement, and B is actually climbing the gate, gripping where there are no holds with strength that no human should have, and he's gone. D goes slack, defeated and crying, and they cling to each other and wait for the brass to come.

"I'm sorry," he's sobbing, and he's bleeding, and E slips a hand under his shirt to press against the wound and keep it staunched. "I tried to stop him—"

"We all had years to stop him," whispers Even.


	60. Under One Roof

60. Under One Roof

"We have come here today to remember before God our brother Quillsh Wammy; to give thanks for his life; to commend him to God our merciful redeemer and judge; and to comfort one another in our grief," the minister rumbles, clearing his throat at every pause.

Like everyone else in the chapel, he was well acquainted with Mr. W, one of the select few on the Outside with any knowledge of the House and its purpose. It seems probable that he will start crying before the service is over, many of the children are thinking (most of them are focused more on psychoanalyzing the minister than on what he's saying, because they're trying hard not to cry themselves).

It feels like it should be raining. It rains most of the time in Winchester. That it should fail to do so today seems almost disrespectful, adding an insult to the injury of the unjust deaths they're gathered to mourn. Hopper never thought he would actually wish for a storm, but right now he thinks lightning could strike the bell tower and he'd actually feel pacified, in some way. He also thinks it's a prideful conceit to feel anger against God, so he tries to focus on the good Mr. W and L did in life and ignore the fact that maybe he is, just a little bit.

Right before the memorial Devon has the perfect opportunity to tell Crash, "See? I told you this would happen," but he doesn't. Instead he just stands quietly next to her, being _there_. In the same way she's aware of gravity she's been aware of it for years, but in that moment Crash realizes consciously that despite all his annoying vanity and gloominess and lousy sense of humor, she'd rather have him there than anyone else when these terrible things _do_ happen.

It's a private memorial, just the people of the House (plus the minister), and probably one of several being held all over the world. There are other Wammy orphanages, Concord is vaguely aware, unLettered ones, all over. It's funny, in a not-at-all-funny way, but she has never until now thought of the House as an orphanage. She barely remembers her parents at all, hasn't thought about them in years, but today she feels orphaned all over again, and it hurts to realize that Mr. W missed seeing her graduated by less than two months.

Near is conspicuous in his absence. There are a few who are angry, and comment on it quietly, but many others understand. They, too, would rather be _doing _something, rather than sitting around feeling unhappy and helpless. Within two hours after the memorial, the new L pauses in his nascent investigation long enough to see that he has seventeen Housemail messages, ranging from simple 'good luck's and 'take him down's to offers of any sort of assistance he might need. He doesn't reply to any of them, but no one really expected him to.

And there are others, of course, too many stories to tell here; A through Z and A through T again, some of them gone and unaware, as of yet, and many here and grieving in their own ways.

Meanwhile the minister goes on, about heaven and a man that they all revered and most of them hardly even knew, never really had a chance to know beyond those precious hours when he appeared as though by magic to bring them from nothing to his House.

* * *

When Quillsh Wammy was a child, he wanted to be an inventor, and never met any real barrier to that dream. Everything he needed was handed to him by parents, professors, grants. Yes, he worked hard, and yes, he charmed everyone around him and inspired them, but to say he struggled for it all would be more than an exaggeration. He had the genius and all the resources to make it blossom simply handed to him—by fate, or the will of God, or simple chance.

It's what amazes him most about this child he has found, this L. Given no opportunities whatsoever, he's a street kid, solving crossword puzzles off recycled newspapers and stealing candy bars. But given a chance—given the reins of power and the encouragement to drive where he will—

Given power, he uses it to cut the world crime level down by a measurable percentage single-handedly.

At first, Quillsh thinks small—and who could blame him? It's not exactly a new idea, but it's the first time it's been implemented so successfully: a lone vigilante making a difference, on a global scale—and not a superhero or a terrorist, not an instrument of violence, but a light of true and lawful justice.

_Why stop with L?_ he thinks. What if L's name could be carried on in perpetuity, standing as a beacon against crime throughout generations?

But Quillsh never truly finishes an invention or fine-tuning an idea; he's a man of big ideas and bigger dreams.

_Just how unique _is_ L?_ Mr. Wammy finds himself wondering, breathless from the tragedy and the untapped sterling possibility of the thought, the first time L addresses the Interpol assembly and they listen, they _listen to him._ How many other scruffy, forgotten children might be scattered across the world with gifts like his, but unlike? L is possibly the greatest investigator the world has ever seen—but there are other thorns in the side of humanity besides crime. Disease, pollution, war. Why stop at crime? What if there are other Ls out there, As and Bs and Cs that might be the solutions to _those_ equations, if only they were also given a chance? What if they, too, could be somehow dug out, cleaned off, cut and polished to their fullest potential?

What if—what if they could be raised without the prejudices and political loyalties, to equality and egalitarianism, to the cause of bettering the human race? Children of every nation emancipated from the rule of nations, outside of and above the petty squabbling and wars, and the politics that underlie and propagate them— He has the resources, this manor, the money, already he has ideas for those among his contacts that might be willing staff, and there are orphans aplenty in the world. He could gather them together to learn from and build off of one another, a generation of the most brilliant minds the globe has to offer, the diamonds in the rough, loyal not to any government or corporation but to the common good of all. What amazing answers might they come up with to the many and various problems that have dogged humanity throughout its history?

Watari walks the grounds and looks up at the House, and he sees not a recently emptied orphanage, but a waiting incubator of raw possibility. He doesn't know yet how L will fall, murdered by a man he calls friend; he does not yet know the tragedies that will occur within these walls in the future, the fights and mental breakdowns and suicides. Perhaps it is a mercy that he will never know all that is destined to befall his House and its graduates—some to love, some to insanity, some to crime and some to power, and some to fade into obscurity, burning out long before their years run out.

Like a young Japanese man will several years from now, he sees the dawning of a utopia—created not by a single vigilante or by a supernatural weapon, but by means of a modern Renaissance, lying dormant in the world's most brilliant, creative minds concentrated under one roof.

Perhaps perfection is too much to ask for.

**The End.**

* * *

**AN: Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading along. I hope you have enjoyed reading this fic as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Most especial thanks to EhMa, for your faithful reviewery :) and to everyone who was so awesome as to share their thoughts and commentary.  
**

**Where from here? Well, as promised, I intend to post the general terms of Hack Acme as an index, as well as a glossary of characters, since there are so many of them and for several I have little details that never quite made it into the story that I still would like to share in one way or another. **

**To publicly answer a question a few people have asked already, if you want to use my OCs, you may, ON THE CONDITIONS that 1. you credit me 2. send me a link (I like reading fanfic too! :D) and 3. please do not use my OCs in slash or sexually explicit fics. If you think this last is close-minded, please save me the trouble of ignoring your message of complaint and instead use the time to come up with your own OCs. I've put a lot of time and energy into developing these characters, and like most proud parents, I did not raise my children to be porn stars.  
**

**If you have any questions on plot or character details you feel I have not adequately addressed (I'm sure there's like, ten kajillion holes, sorry D:) feel free to ask and I'll see if I can find a way to work the answers into the character glossary. **

**Thanks again!**

**+love,**

**Sarapsys.  
**


	61. Index I HackMe

**Hack ACME Contest - Abridged Rules**

The gist of it

The student body is divided into four groups, random adjusted, by the staff. ACME Corporation is given a large folder of interconnected digital files of varying kinds, some of which are tagged as containing "sensitive" information. These tagged files are referred to as the Red Stack. The information relates to some kind of illegal activity that ACME is involved in (the particulars of the scenario vary each year). All teams begin with 10,000 points. Teams can gain or lose points by spending or earning them in transactions with other teams and by team-specific penalty/award rules applied by a panel of judges. The team with the highest number of points at the end of the scoring round wins.

Teams

_ACME Corporation_

ACME's main goal is to prevent any of the other groups from gaining access to the information within their files. They can attempt to protect them through any method, 'legal' or 'illegal', that does not break the Rules of the game. They win points for every file and extra points for every tagged file that has not been accessed by any other team by the end of the game. They lose points for every file that is taken without their intent.

_Hackers_

The goal of the Hackers is to obtain as many ACME files as possible, tagged or not, without alerting any of the other groups to their activities. They win points for every file they obtain and still have at the end of the game. They lose points for every file they do not access or that they lose.

_Police_

The goal of the Police is to get a hold of all of the tagged files in the Red Stack _without _taking untagged files. They gain points for every tagged file they obtain and lose them for every untagged file they accidentally take. They also get and lose points by 'tagging' individual team members demonstrably engaged in 'illegal' activities. Tagged members must remain inactive for a period of up to 48 hours or until their team bails them out. Police win points for every valid tag they make and lose points for every invalid tag. Therefore, they may take a calculated risk and deliberately keep an individual player out of the game even though that player has done nothing wrong, but it may cost them more than they can afford.

_Media_

The goal of the Media is to publicize everything the other teams are doing, making their strategies that much more difficult. Every evening after dinner they broadcast a 'newscast' about the game (and other topics as they choose, providing they are not inappropriate or attacking individuals about non-game related issues). They may also decide to do breaking news broadcasts, though this is usually only done a handful of times during the game. The Media gains points for every correct fact they publicize and lose points for all misinformation (accuracy is determined by the judges). Other teams often deal with the Media by deliberately spreading misinformation.

Legality Rules

Legality rules are a set of changing rules within the Rules that describe a set of circumstances and actions that are allowed in gameplay, but 'illegal' for the purposes of the Police team and associated penalties. They are purposely designed to be excessively stringent so that teams will be practically forced to break them in one way or another, complicating an already complicated situation. Examples of legality rules may be using certain computers in the media lab on certain days of the week, using particular variable names in code, etc. Sometimes the judges get creative and the rules get a little absurd, such as the year that failing to wear blue socks in the library but red socks in the media lab on Saturdays was 'illegal'.

True Rules  
Breaking any of these rules is grounds for immediate disqualification of the offending player(s) and the automatic loss of 5000 points by the team.

No team is allowed to destroy all copies of or render irreversibly unusable through data corruption any of the ACME files.

Deliberate destruction, damage, or sabotage of House property or systems not put in place specifically for the purpose of the game is prohibited.

Players may access non-House resources (books, websites, code, court proceedings, etc.) for ideas and guidance, but may NOT contact any personage not of the current House staff for assistance, nor can they outsource work.

Points may be spent in the same way as money for the purposes of bail or bribery. Transactions are made digitally.

Under no circumstances is physical or deliberate psychological harm allowed.

A team may end up with a valid negative score after final scoring without extra penalty. However, if a team ends up with a negative score during gameplay through overspending, they go into 'bankruptcy', a status in which extra restrictions are applied to members' actions until they are out of bankruptcy.

The entire House and grounds and the House servers are all fair game ground.

Gameplay lasts thirty days, from the day assignments are given to the day score-figuring begins.

Scoring  
At the end of the game, each team has a point score known only to them (unless it's been hacked or calculated) based on what points they have spent and made through "money" transactions. The penalty and award scores are then added to this score by a panel of judges which includes Roger, Chegal, Barton, and four professors-one in criminology, one in international law, one in business policy, and one in data security technologies.


	62. Index II Character Glossary

**Index II: Character Glossary**

**Super long AN:**

**_Just in general: _**This glossary started off as my working notes. Basically one day I sat down, decided T2 would be my last letter, came up with a list of aliases, then assigned them genders and nationalities mostly at random. Since then I've just developed them as I needed them, and filled in as many cracks as I could for this glossary. As a result, some characters are much more developed than others, and some I've put very little thought into at all, and it will probably show. Sorry.

**_Regarding copyright/character use: _**As before stated in response to inquiries, yes, you may use my OCs in your own fics if you would like, on the following conditions:

1 Credit me

2 Send me a link, since I'd love to read it

3 No slash or sexually explicit fic. If this last strikes you as unfair or biased, cry about it. I put a lot of time and effort into producing these characters, and I didn't raise them to be porn stars. Your arguments about how it's 'art, not porn' do not interest me.

**_Regarding names:_** I only came up with 'first' or personal names for the kids, because they're from all over the world and I was too lazy to research naming conventions in a dozen different cultures. Also, just because a nickname isn't listed doesn't mean they don't have any.

**_Regarding the '_Issues'_ sections_:** many of the kids have emotional and/or psychological problems, but I'd like to point out that all of them are in counseling and a hefty percentage of them are being medically treated for their problems. Just because a kid is listed as having depression or whatever doesn't mean it will necessarily be apparent all of the time, since it is likely that it is being managed. The unmanageable ones end up scrubbed, and in the end I couldn't bring myself to scrub as many of them as I thought would fill out a typical washout percentage. Too attached to my kids T_T

**_Regarding ages:_** As usual I was caught between my desire for my writing to be accurate to canon and internally consistent, and my completely hatred for figuring out timetables and dates. While writing UOR I often found myself caught by contradictions in the timeline with SotF and DN and my idea of what a kid is capable at what age. Well and so I ended up just writing things out without the numbers matching up quite like they should, with more a fuzzy idea of 'this kid is older than these ones' as I went than ever actually figuring their relative ages. This was how I was vaguely conceptualizing it in kind of groups of kids that are _roughly _the same age, from oldest to youngest. This should be considered more a vague sort of scale than definite 'years' or something. I know it doesn't really make sense with the timeline and events of the story but too damn bad.

_**Oldest**_

Alt, Backup, Concord

Dex, Fallon, Hopper

Icarus, Gao, Jitter

Even, Kae

Linda, Qarri, Paran, Isabel

Mello, Rom, Over, Traction

Matt, Yuan

Near, Sember, Vince, Xie, Wiley, Zane, Geia, Hunter, Echo

Aris, Beckon, Crash, Devon, Faris, Una, Jordan, Karter, Lazlo, Nina

Ochre, Raphael, Solar

Paolo, Quinn, Train

_**Youngest**_

**_Regarding chapter listings: _**I categorized these as chapters narrated by that character, chapters in which they played a major role (eg, had significant screen time, or a lot of relevant character-developing information was brought up), and chapters in which they were mentioned (no real screen time, but some relevant detail of their relationships or character was mentioned). It's highly probable that they are not 100% accurate or consistent, but I put what I could remember off the top of my head.

Feel free to msg me with comments/questions/corrections.

_**

* * *

**_

_**Student Glossary

* * *

**_

**Alternate**

_Nicknames:_ Alt

_Real Name:_ Colin

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ brown

_Hair color:_ brown

_General:_ on the slender side, sort of a dweeb

**About**

_Found in:_ England

_Issues:_ Serious depression

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ (never considered)

_Background and personality:_ seriously down on himself, a lot of self-loathing, esp. when helped along by B. lived with his mother before the House, who killed herself after miscarrying his little brother. A lot of his issues stem from the fact that he didn't want a brother, but when the baby died he felt like it was his fault, and he both blames himself and the baby for killing their mother.

**Chapters: **Narrator(14 Serpent), Major(59 Undone), Mentioned(3 Curse, 6 Vigil, 18 Ghosts, 30 Kamikaze, 39 Sighting, 49 Dare, 57 Still)

* * *

**Backup**

_Real Name_: Beyond

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ black

_Hair color:_ dirty blond, kind of shaggy

_General:_ as canon

**About**

_Found in:_ US

_Issues:_ Shinigami eyes, pretty much a psycho

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ antagonizing Alt

_Background and personality: _ gotta say, not too interested in filling this one out. He's pretty flat the way I write him. Someone has to be the bad guy.

**Chapters: **Major(14 Serpent, 59 Undone), Mentioned(3 Curse, 6 Vigil, 30 Kamikaze, 34 Hunger, 49 Dare, 58 Crushed)

* * *

**Concord**

_Real Name:_ Bethany

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ brown

_Hair color:_ light brown bob

_General_: glasses, kinda skinny and gangly

**About**

_Found in_: England

_Issues_: Tongue-tied

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ designing, programming, and hacking security systems

_Background and personality_: quiet and awkward around everyone but the handful of people she feels comfortable around, and even then not much of a talker. Protective of the few friends that she has. Comes across as innocent bc she's rather helpless in conversation, but is not nearly so goody-two-shoes as she appears, having a definite disregard for the idea of legal vs. illegal and being completely confident in her abilities when hidden behind a screen and keyboard. Hates awkwardness, conflict, confrontation, and being put on the spot.

_Future: _Marries Dex. They never do wind up having kids, though they adopt Hopper's son after he dies. The company the three of them start does end up being fabulously successful, however, and they pretty much live out happy, as-normal-as-can-be-expected lives in Stockholm, traveling often to London and around the Continent.

**Chapters: **Narrator(30 Kamikaze), Major(SotF, 6 Vigil, 14 Serpent, 23 Hyena, 57 Still, 59 Undone, 60 Under One Roof), Mentioned(1 Swap, 10 Baby, 22 Crossings, 26 Laissez-Faire, 27 Police, 42 Letters, 53 Sentence)

* * *

**Dex**

_Real Name:_ Daniel

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: hazel

_Hair color_: blond

_General_: glasses, tallish and narrow-faced, looks like the kid who would get his lunch money stolen in middle school

**About**

_Found in_: England

_Issues_: Guilt

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: history and politics, calligraphy, strategy games

_Background and personality_: grew up mostly in London. Parents died when he was 2 and he was put in foster care and never quite got settled. Responsible, a big-picture sort of thinker who tends to automatically take the lead and whom people find easy to follow. On the other hand, he sometimes takes himself too seriously, and often shoulders the blame for things that aren't really his fault then dwells on them for years. Serious and occasionally brooding but has a dry sense of humor.

_Future: _Marries Concord. They never do wind up having kids, though they adopt Hopper's son after he dies. The company the three of them start does end up being fabulously successful, however, and they pretty much live out happy, as-normal-as-can-be-expected lives in Stockholm, traveling often to London and around the Continent.

**Chapters: **Narrator(53 Sentence), Major(6 Vigil, 14 Serpent, 23 Hyena, 30 Kamikaze, 42 Letters, 48 Usurper, 59 Undone), Mentioned(10 Baby, 57 Still)

* * *

**Even**

_Real Name:_ Catharine

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: light grey

_Hair color:_ dark and straight

_General:_ on the small side, pointed chin, sorta pale, fragile-looking

**About**

_Found in:_ England

_Issues:_ PTSD, sensitivity to other people's pain on top of her own issues

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ strong audiovisual and 'touch' clairvoyance, photographic memory

_Background and personality_: coming from a physically and sexually abusive home, is very sensitive but distances herself emotionally from people in self-defense. Her 'gift' (whether it is a gift is questionable) is so strong that she, unlike the other clairvoyant children in the House, has difficulty distinguishing when things are happening around her, and therefore finds it difficult to communicate with people. Mr. W didn't find her so much as she found him—he encountered her on a street corner in London, where she walked up, took his hand, and told him that he was a few minutes earlier than she had remembered.

_Future: _Suicide by sleep medication overdose only three years after her transfer from the House.

**Chapters: **Narrator(59 Undone), Major(6 Vigil, 18 Ghosts), Mentioned(26 Laissez-faire, 39 Sighting, 57 Still)

* * *

**Fallon**

_Real Name: _ Eljasz

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: blue

_Hair color_: brown and longish

_General_: tallish and with that weird broad-shouldered, long-torsoed build a lot of swimmers seem to have

**About**

_Found in_: Poland

_Issues:_ Bipolar

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: swimming, racquetball, political psychology, physics

_Background and personality_: probably would have made a decent L if he weren't so screwed up emotionally. Alternately loud, proud, and crazy chipper as the day is long, depressed, and screaming-tantrum mad depending on what sets him off. His descent from the top starts around the time Mello starts kicking ass, and he pretty much burns out and steadily disintegrates from the inside out until he is finally scrubbed.

_Future: _The other Dukes do indeed find him in Amsterdam, stoned out of his mind, trapped in a self-destructive cycle and working as a freelance hit man and courier. For a while Gao convinces him to come work for his syndicate as an inside analyst, but he dies of alcohol poisoning at the age of twenty-six.

**Chapters: **Narrator(29 Unchained, 48 Usurper), Major(9 Fix), Mentioned(2 Compulsion, 19 Fall, 23 Hyena, 53 Sentence, 57 Still)

* * *

**Gao**

_Nicknames:_ Clink

_Real Name_: Kuanyin

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ black

_Hair color:_ black and spiky

_General_: short and wiry, big and somewhat scary shark smile, ears stick out

**About**

_Found in:_ China

_Issues_: Occasional mania

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: card tricks, street smarts, economics

_Background and personality_: would sell his own mother for a pack of cigarettes if he had one. Gao is the one who started the smoking craze among the letters, and is the main dealer. Much of his experience comes from living on the street and getting tied up in gang activity before being found by Mr. W. He enjoys winding people up and sitting back to watch them tick, and is an excellent liar.

_Future: _When he graduates and gets to pick his own clothes, he turns out to have a garish and rather flamboyant sense of style. Starts up one of the most pervasive rings of organized crime in the 21st century, based largely on drugs, gambling, and random acts of professional cybertrolling, and winds up assassinated by a criminal rival in his late forties.

**Chapters: **Narrator(23 Hyena), Major(6 Vigil, 48 Usurper), Mentioned(27 Police, 29 Unchained, 41 Heist, 44 Astronauts, 49 Dare, 53 Sentence, 57 Still)

* * *

**Hopper**

_Nicknames:_ Hop

_Real Name_: Amos

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ hazel

_Hair color:_ brown and curly

_General:_ solid, blocky build and squarish face, large nose

**About**

_Found in:_ US

_Issues_: Weather paranoia

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: electrical engineering, carpentry, carving

_Background and personality_: grew up Amish, the eldest of five (four little sisters). His family was killed when a tornado destroyed their house; he escaped purely by chance, because he had been caught outside in the storm and took shelter in the barn. One of the House kids who was probably not brought there on the most strictly legal of terms, since he probably does have extended family living. Down-to-earth, practical, likes to work with his hands, fairly easy-going and doesn't like fighting or conceited people.

_Future_: Sticks with the company he starts with D and C and marries an Outsider woman, with whom he has a son. His wife dies when the child is only two, and Hopper gets cancer and passes away in his early fifties, leaving his teenage son in C and D's guardianship.

**Chapters: **Narrator(6 Vigil, 42 Letters), Major(2 Compulsion, 14 Serpent, 23 Hyena, 30 Kamikaze, 59 Undone, 60 UOR), Mentioned(10 Baby, 22 Crossings, 53 Sentence, 57 Still)

* * *

**Icarus**

_Real Name_: Jie Min

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: black

_Hair color_: long and black

_General_: tallish and willowy, slender hands, part of her tongue and lips missing and scarred over

**About**

_Found in:_ China

_Issues_: Muted by throat/mouth injury, slight auditory clairvoyance

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: network systems, quantum theory, abstract computer theory

_Background and personality_: rather hard-bitten, cynical, perceptive but not always very sympathetic. Doesn't mind keeping to herself, and is reluctant to leave her comfort zones due to self-consciousness and general mistrust of the world. Also a coffee addict.

_Future: _She does stay at the House, taking over Chegal's position, but Concord bullies her into visiting often.

**Chapters: **Narrator(57 Still), Major(18 Ghosts, 39 Sighting), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 23 Hyena, 29 Unchained)

* * *

**Jitter**

_Real Name_: Logan

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: green

_Hair color_: orange

_General_: really tall and skinny, knobbly joints, long freckly face, just generally looks a bit like a stork

**About**

_Found in_: Ireland

_Issues:_ Anxiety, ADHD, and nervous tic disorder

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: more of a savant—all math all the time, instant calculation

_Background and personality_: unsurprisingly, endured a great deal of abuse and bullying before the House due to his painfully obvious problems and weirdness. Has a habit of stealing socks and nailing them to his door as a sort of 'nah-nah, gotcha!' Really self-conscious about—well—everything about himself, more or less, and puts up a joking sort of front.

_Future: _Against everyone's (including his own) expectations, actually manages to graduate without getting scrubbed. Starts off teamed up with Gao, but shortly after Fallon's death and due both to that and some serious disagreements with G and the direction his work is going, ends up walking out, moving to America, and working for a private research company looking into the possibility of commercial space travel.

**Chapters: **Narrator(9 Fix), Major(2 Compulsion, 6 Vigil), Mentioned(SotF, 10 Baby, 23 Hyena, 29 Unchained, 41 Heist, 53 Sentence)

* * *

**Kae**

_Real Name:_ Noriko

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: dark brown

_Hair color_: black, pixie cut

_General_: petite with an oval face and sorta pouty mouth

**About**

_Found in_: Japan

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: materials science and chemistry, piano, painting her nails

_Background and personality_: she's sort of the 'normal' one of the Dukes, insofar as there are normal kids in the House. Of all of them, she's most interested in things like pop culture, relationships, and just being a kid, but in the House that's sort of looked down on, so she feels very insecure about whether or not she really belongs there.

_Future_: After leaving the House, moves to Boston and goes to MIT. Starts off well, until Gao sends her word of Fallon's death, and she commits suicide.

**Chapters: **Narrator(18 Ghosts), Major(29 Unchained, 53 Sentence), Mentioned(19 Fall, 22 Crossings, 23 Hyena, 48 Usurper)

* * *

**Linda**

_Nicknames_: Lin

_Real Name_: Deborah

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: hazel

_Hair color_: light brown and sorta fluffy

_General_: average build, on the curvy side, often with pencils or paintbrushes stuck in her hair and random dabs of paint on her face

**About**

_Found in_: Canada

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: traditional art media inc. painting and charcoal

_Background and personality_: being the youngest of the older students, she gets babied a bit, and though initially she enjoys the special treatment, as more younger students come in and the older students still treat her like a cute little sister she gets resentful about it and gets really bossy with the younger kids to try to assert herself. The whole thing is sort of exacerbated by the fact that most of the other kids until Aris are geniuses in more applicable fields and sometimes give her a bad time about not being a 'real' genius despite how much the staff try to convince them otherwise.

_Future_: Boring. She becomes a successful artist and talks a lot at workshops.

**Chapters: **Narrator(10 Baby), Major(1 Swap, 23 Hyena), Mentioned(37 Time's Up, 38 Shoes, 48 Usurper)

* * *

**Mello**

_Nicknames_: Black Twin

_Real Name_: Mihael

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: blue

_Hair color_: golden blond

_General_: as canon

**About**

_Found in_: Germany

_Issues_: Inferiority complex, slight mania

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: psychosocial theory, manipulation, criminology, pure motivation

_Background and personality_: physically and emotionally abusive father who ended up murdering his mother and almost finishing him off. Out to prove that he's worth something.

**Chapters: **Narrator(8 Drive, 26 Laissez-faire, 50 Janiceps, 58 Crushed), Major(2 Compulsion, 19 Fall, 23 Hyena, 30 Kamikaze, 34 Hunger, 45 Astronauts, 48 Usurper), Mentioned(1 Swap, 5 Box Seats, 7 Inches, 11 Santa Claus, 22 Crossings, 38 Shoes, 51 Glass, 55 Rosemary)

* * *

**Near**

_Nicknames_: White Twin

_Real Name_: Nate

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ dark grey

_Hair color_: white blond

_General_: as canon, though I didn't write him albino. Cry about it.

**About**

_Found in_: US

_Issues_: Slight anxiety

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ puzzles, building structures, logical theory, action figures

_Background and personality_: abandoned and as a result mistrustful of people and their motives, convinced that people will always abandon them unless he can logically persuade or force them not to. At the same time, holds people at arm's length so he won't get emotionally attached.

**Chapters: **Narrator(4 Itch, 16 Surrender, 55 Rosemary, 58 Crushed), Major(8 Drive, 11 Santa Claus, 23 Hyena, 30 Kamikaze, 45 Astronauts, 50 Janiceps, 60 UOR), Mentioned(2 Compulsion, 19 Fall, 22 Crossings, 26 Laissez-faire, 37 Time's Up)

* * *

**Over**

_Nicknames_: Tweedle Dim

_Real Name_: Pyotr

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: brown

_Hair color_: brown and straight

_General_: somewhat heavyset, broad face and broad smile, freckles

**About**

_Found in_: Russia

_Issues_: …he might be Rom's brother. Who knows?

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: accoustics, sound-mixing and re-mixing, some musical inclination, pranking

_Background and personality_: Ima cheat, bc I really did develop them as a pair and I'm having difficulty thinking of them separately. They are not brothers, but, in fact, cousins. Their fathers were not on speaking terms, having had a rocky relationship as kids and ending up involved in warring crime factions. Ironically enough, Rom and Over were both orphaned by assassinations ordered by their uncles within three days of each other. Mr. W then found them separately, in different orphanages, completely by coincidence. Neither of them know this, however; they just know that within minutes of meeting each other, they fit together like peas in a pod, and enjoy jointly wreaking havoc in the House.

_Future_: The two cousins set up shop together as freelance private investigators and spies, driving an unmarked van, eating a lot of pastries, and playing a lot of (mostly) harmless phone and wire pranks.

**Chapters: **Major(36 Ears, 38 Shoes, 52 Straws), Mentioned(11 Santa Claus, 22 Crossings, 35 Toad, 46 Outing, 49 Dare)

* * *

**Paran**

_Real Name_: Hasan

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: brown

_Hair color_: black and sorta tufty

_General_: tall and pale with a big nose, scrawny as a kid but grows up to be kind of hulky

**About**

_Found in_: Morroco

_Issues_: Serious depression

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: more of a genius with his hands: can make or fix just about anything with anything

_Background and personality_: Is actually quite talented, but tends to get into experiments that can't really be hidden if they go awry, and so has ended up with a reputation of 'always getting caught' and being sort of the dozy one. This has made him rather sour.

_Future_: True to Nina's prediction, he ends up in jail for sabotaging a major railway shortly after graduation, and is later stabbed in a prison fight.

**Chapters: **Narrator(36 Ears), Major(4 Itch, 38 Shoes), Mentioned(21 Crossings, 21 Panopticon, 35 Toad)

* * *

**Qarri**

_Real Name_: Tabia

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: black

_Hair color_: frizzy and dark

_General_: short and weedy, with a scowl more or less permanently stamped on her face, has glasses but never wears them

**About**

_Found in_: Egypt

_Issues_: Slightly antisocial, occasional anger problems

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: remote/networked systems, interoperability programming

_Background and personality_: Something of a sour disposition and rotten attitude about just about everything, though on occasion she does mean well in her harsh, snappish way. Has a lot of House pride, is extremely defensive against perceived insults, and holds a grudge forever. Probably most mentioned for her never-ending rivalry with Isabel.

_Future_: Gets a job working with the W3C, then dies in a train accident at the age of 28.

**Chapters: **Narrator(27 Police), Major(2 Compulsion, 7 Inches, 38 Shoes, 47 Grudge), Mentioned(1 Swap, 5 Box Seats, 12 Schedule 58 Crushed)

* * *

**Rom**

_Nicknames_: Tweedle Dumb

_Real Name_: Pavlik

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: brown

_Hair color_: brown and curly

_General_: medium build with an ovalish face and freckles

**About**

_Found in_: Russia

_Issues_: …he might be Over's brother. Who knows?

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: electronics, circuits, wireless systems, pranking

_Background and personality_: Ima cheat, bc I really did develop them as a pair and I'm having difficulty thinking of them separately. They are not brothers, but, in fact, cousins. Their fathers were not on speaking terms, having had a rocky relationship as kids and ending up involved in warring crime factions. Ironically enough, Rom and Over were both orphaned by assassinations ordered by their uncles within three days of each other. Mr. W then found them separately, in different orphanages, completely by coincidence. Neither of them know this, however; they just know that within minutes of meeting each other, they fit together like peas in a pod, and enjoy jointly wreaking havoc in the House.

_Future_: The two cousins set up shop together as freelance private investigators and spies, driving an unmarked van, eating a lot of pastries, and playing a lot of (mostly) harmless phone and wire pranks.

**Chapters: **Major(7 Inches, 36 Ears, 38 Shoes, 52 Straws), Mentioned(11 Santa Claus, 22 Crossings, 35 Toad, 46 Outing, 49 Dare)

* * *

**Sember**

_Nicknames_: Doc

_Real Name_: Braeden

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: light blue

_Hair color_: blond bowl cut

_General_: glasses, pudgy and awkward, on the klutzy side

**About**

_Found in_: England

_Issues_: Social anxiety

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: physiology and medicine, history of science, checkers

_Background and personality_: Has been in foster care as long as he can remember, and was not a good experience for him. An idealistic altruist, which is something of a rarity in the House. Works best when under sudden pressure because he falls back on what he knows how to do, which is a lot, rather than letting himself get all worked up and nervous.

_Future: _Tries medical research because he's got the brains for it, but ends up deciding he prefers working with patients and running the OR at a public hospital, which many of his colleagues and old Housemates consider a waste of his ability. He also ends up going through two marriages and divorces with Outsider women and letting them get away with far more than is really fair in the settlements.

**Chapters: **Narrator(11 Santa Claus, 19 Fall), Major(2 Compulsion, 55 Rosemary, 58 Crushed), Mentioned(SotF, 22 Crossings, 24 Purple, 35 Toad, 46 Outing, 52 Straws)

* * *

**Traction**

_Real Name:_ Ray

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: dark green

_Hair color_: auburn

_General_: small and scrawny with a snub nose, fidgety

**About**

_Found in_: Denmark

_Issues_: Paranoid schizophrenia

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: sadly, we will never know.

_Background and personality_: Has delusions and hallucinations about a younger sister "Ally", though he's an only child. Shortly after his arrival at the House it is realized that he's really not at all stable and he's better off elsewhere.

_Future_: Spends most the rest of his life in permanent care at a psychiatric hospital.

**Chapters: **Narrator(21 Panopticon), Mentioned(46 Outing)

* * *

**Una**

_Real Name_: Claudia

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: dark brown

_Hair color_: short and black

_General_: petite and a bit curvy when she gets older, large eyes and round face

**About**

_Found in_: Colombia

_Issues_: Cripplingly shy, sleepwalks

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: logical theory and literature, plays cello, violin, flute, and some piano

_Background and personality_: grew up in a village in Colombia that was torn between drug lords and national military forces. Pretty much lives in her own little world, and needs to be flagged back down to earth if you want to actually interact with her. Is a silently judgmental little kid who finds she disapproves of a lot of things and people she encounters, but she also disapproves of strong words, extreme sentiments, and anything or anyone that rocks the boat, so she's unlikely to bring up or even mentally frame her criticism explicitly. Avoids situations she doesn't like by spacing out.

_Future_: Marries Faris; the two of them settle down in Belgium and live out a quiet life of co-authoring highly dense and theoretical books and collecting expensive art.

**Chapters: **Narrator(46 Outing), Major(24 Purple, 32 Slide), Mentioned(19 Fall, 52 Straws)

* * *

**Vince**

_Nicknames_: Mr. Sunshine

_Real Name_: Haji

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ black

_Hair color_: black, almost buzzed

_General_: triangular face, usually with a smile that barely fits on the front of his head

**About**

_Found in_: Liberia

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: easily picks up new languages just by listening to them, social analysis

_Background and personality_: horribly, disgustingly cheerful, ALL THE TIME. The sort of cheery you want to clunk over the head with your coffee mug when you're not quite awake in the morning. Generous, loves people, and all-around impossible not to get along with despite how annoying he is.

_Future_: Ends up as a high-level ambassador-liaison for a global nonprofit organization that arranges adoptions.

**Chapters: **Major(38 Shoes, 41 Heist, 56 Grab), Mentioned(51 Glass)

* * *

**Wiley**

_Nicknames_: Dubs

_Real Name_: Amber

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: green

_Hair color_: long, wavy, strawberry blond

_General_: awkwardly tall and athletic build with long arms and legs, freckly

**About**

_Found in_: Canada

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: projectile physics, juggling, darts, anything that involves good aim

_Background and personality_: she's the one who was pretty normal, then suddenly got really, really tall before anyone else hit their growth spurts, then just kept on growing. She was already on the shy side, but that really made her socially clumsy and uncomfortable in her own skin, and she often doesn't know what to do with herself in group situations. Has a habit of chewing on the end of her braid and on her fingernails and just generally picking at things when she's thinking or bored.

_Future_: Sniper.

**Chapters: **Narrator(31 Debt), Major(10 Baby, 41 Heist), Mentioned(43 Perch)

* * *

**Xie**

_Real Name_: Jun

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: black

_Hair color_: black and wavy

_General_: small and compact, looks frail but knows how to pack a punch

**About**

_Found in_: Thailand

_Issues_: Serious abuse victim, PTSD

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: politics and cross-cultural policy, martial arts

_Background and personality_: sold as a sex slave at a very young age and was quite literally stolen from a tourist brothel by a contact of Mr. W's who had heard about her sneaking through clients' belongings and using their identities to blackmail them. Has a lot of unresolved rage and vengeance issues, likes animals better than people, and secretly despises men (with the exception of Mr. W).

_Future_: Overdoses on her sedatives shortly after being scrubbed.

**Chapters: **Narrator(56 Grab), Major(7 Inches, 16 Surrender), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 40 Miscarriage, 51 Glass)

* * *

**Yuan**

_Real Name:_ Dewei

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: dark brown

_Hair color:_ black

_General_: gangly and knobbly and just generally looks like he wasn't put together quite right; one foot is clubbed

**About**

_Found in:_ China

_Issues:_ PTSD, some delusion

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: genetic engineering and botany, meditating, gardening

_Background and personality_: physically and sexually abused as a small child, seeks to separate himself from his past and memories by investing in becoming more 'like a tree'. Tranquil, quiet, and sort of in his own little world, goes about things sort of slowly but steadily.

_Future_: After a lot of medication and counseling, turns out to be ok, and spends most of his time lobbying for the interests of wildlife preserves.

**Chapters: **Narrator(25 Dig), Major(40 Miscarriage), Mentioned(22 Crossings)

* * *

**Zane**

_Real Name_: Jeffrey

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: blue

_Hair color_: dark brown

_General_: skinny with glasses, sort of another classic nerd-looking type who would probably wear a pocket protector Outside.

**About**

_Found in_: US

_Issues_: Mild agoraphobia, obsession with measuring

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: mathematics and exponential theory, astronomy, video games

_Background and personality_: had a father determined to 'fix' him before his parents died. He was used to his ideas and suggestions ignored all the time before the House, so is in the habit of making his comments or observations out loud to himself, not really caring if anyone is paying attention or not. Bored and sort of neutral on a lot of subjects, willing to pretty much go with the flow. Methodical and reserved, but tends to get along easily enough with Insiders since he doesn't really put up much of an argument.

_Future: _After the House he ends up growing a beard, wearing a lot of plaid shirts, working in R&D in a computing company, and marrying an empty-headed trophy bimbo named Muffie, whom he sees basically as a sort of pet that he keeps back home at the mansion he's rarely at and who spends a lot of his money. His friends are fairly critical of this, but he doesn't really care.

**Chapters: **Narrator(7 Inches), Major(27 Police, 32 Slide, 41 Heist), Mentioned(22 Crossings)

* * *

**Aris**

_Real Name_: Aparajita

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: brown

_Hair color_: long and black

_General: _…gh. I've drawn her twice and still don't know how to describe her. She's nondescript.

**About**

_Found in_: India

_Issues_: Depression

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: CG rendering and stealing people's magazines to make collages, modern art

_Background and personality_: comes across as aggressive but really isn't all that bad once you get to kow her; impatient, critical, has high expectations for herself and others.

_Future_: Makes a _lot _of money doing renderings for increasingly popular virtual reality games, films, and training programs.

**Chapters: **Narrator(3 Curse), Major(24 Purple, 37 Time's Up), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 51 Glass)

* * *

**Beckon**

_Nicknames_: Beck (no one calls him B, bc of Backup.)

_Real Name_: Adrian

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: grey

_Hair color_: dark brown

_General_: sort of a ferrety-looking kid with glasses and long, slender hands

**About**

_Found in:_ Scotland

_Issues_: Slight visual clairvoyance, synaesthesia

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ musical savant who takes immediately to any instrument you put in front of him, but particularly good at piano

_Background and personality_: Definitely lives in his own little musical world. Imaginative, a daydreamer, and usually with absolutely no idea of what's going on around him. Sweet and a bit naïve. What made him snap? No one really knows for sure.

_Future_: Tries again to commit suicide two years later, and this time succeeds.

**Chapters: **Narrator(24 Purple), Major(3 Curse, 39 Sighting, 52 Straws), Mentioned(49 Dare)

* * *

**Crash**

_Real Name_: Madeleine

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: greenish brown

_Hair color_: light brown and unruly

_General_: a little on the skinny side, usually a mess of uncombed hair and scorch marks, disproportionately big mouth…kinda like Julia Roberts

**About**

_Found in_: France

_Issues_: Fire-starting and mild pyromania

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: chemical engineering, designing fireworks and explosives, setting things on fire

_Background and personality_: her parents died when she was an infant so she grew up with her grandfather, an eccentric retired combat engineer with seven dogs and a vineyard in southern France. He died of colon cancer, and she was taken by Mr. W. Spunky, obnoxious, likes to laugh and joke and have fun—usually at someone else's expense. She likes risk and excitement, and her attitude toward worrying and complaining is that if it isn't either fun or effective, it's a waste of time that could be used doing something fun or effective. Her solution process for any problem: 1. Stop whining and fix it. 2. If you can't fix it, laugh it off. 3. If for some reason you can't laugh at it, or you do and it's still a problem, find the source of the problem and blow it up.

_Future_: Leaves the House with Devon, starting a rocky on-again-off-again relationship that takes over fifteen years to finally settle down into something stable. In the meantime, becomes an expert in sabotage, sometimes teaming up with Wiley to pull jobs for Gao's syndicate.

**Chapters: **Narrator(13 Joie, ), Major(5 Box Seats, 10 Baby, 19 Fall, 31 Debt, 33 Sparks, 60 UOR), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 41 Heist, 46 Outing, 52 Straws, 58 Crushed)

* * *

**Devon**

_Nicknames_: Murphy

_Real Name_: Mujahid

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: pale green

_Hair color_: black and glossy

_General_: tall, graceful, and pretty, almost but not quite girlishly so.

**About**

_Found in_: Saudi Arabia

_Issues_: Slight depression

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: chemical engineering, inventing new substances or finding new uses for old ones, painting

_Background and personality_: bastard son of a prostitute, a fact which galls him and which he deals with by actively despising his mother, who died of syphilis. Dark-humored, pessimistic, rather cold, impatient with 'frivolity' (aka fun), and very rarely impressed or amused by anything. Somewhat paradoxically, he is incredibly vain and spends a good deal of time carefully tending to his appearance; comes across as prissy when he's younger, but he grows into it rather unfairly well. Places a great deal of value on propriety and neatness.

_Future_: Leaves the House with Crash, starting a rocky on-again-off-again relationship that takes over fifteen years to finally settle down into something stable. Founds a chemical research company and makes a ridiculous amount of money off the substances they invent.

**Chapters: **Narrator(33 Sparks), Major(5 Box Seats, 13 Joie, 19 Fall, 41 Heist), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 32 Slide, 36 Ears, 58 Crushed, 60 UOR)

* * *

**Echo**

_Real Name_: Hannah

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: hazel

_Hair color_: long and light blond

_General_: always seems kinda tan even though she's almost never outside, narrow sort of build, usually wears her hair up in Leia buns

**About**

_Found in_: Australia

_Issues_: OCD – corner-tapping compulsion, has to have things be in fours

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: physics and light theory

_Background and personality_: Raised on the coast by a bunch of men—her uncle, much older brother, and two much older cousins. She still has a sharkstooth necklace made from a tooth her brother found on the beach one day. One day they left her with a neighbor so they could go fishing, got caught in a nasty squall, and never came back. A little on the highstrung side, likes to joke around and tease people though she's not as nasty about it as her friend Crash.

_Future_: Has a job at NASA that she ends up hating. Happens to run into Hunter at an airport a good six years after graduation, and the two of them wind up dropping everything, getting married, and becoming stormchasers.

**Chapters: **Narrator(49 Dare), Major(31 Debt), Mentioned(3 Curse, 46 Outing)

* * *

**Faris**

_Real Name_: Terrence

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: dark brown

_Hair color_: black and wavy

_General_: not really sure yet

**About**

_Found in:_ Australia

_Issues_: Mild epilepsy.

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ political strategy, group psychology, Risk and other strategy games

_Background and personality_: A boy of few words who grows into a man of even fewer. Not shy, exactly, just prefers thinking and observing over sharing his thoughts and observations, though he's more than happy to listen. Lowkey but conscientious.

_Future_: Marries Una; the two of them settle down in Belgium and live out a quiet life of co-authoring highly dense and theoretical books and collecting expensive art.

**Chapters: **Narrator(32 Slide), Major(46 Outing, 54 Training), Mentioned(24 Purple, 52 Straws)

* * *

**Geia**

_Real Name_: Baibin

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ dark blue

_Hair color:_ long, black, and curly

_General_: very pretty, oval face and classic features

**About**

_Found in:_ Greece

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: music therapy and clinical psychology, plays violin (acoustic and electric) and some clarinet

_Background and personality_: probably the letter with one of the happiest and healthiest backgrounds, up until the death of her parents. Tends to be the 'motherly' one of the group, though not always—she's willing to bend farther than most in the House to make things easier for others, not that that's saying much. Likes things straight and doesn't take nonsense or bullshit, willing to be confrontational if necessary and hound people along to get the job done.

_Future_: Becomes a world-famous psychotherapist and researcher, marries an Outsider and has three kids.

**Chapters: **Narrator(52 Straws), Major(24 Purple, 46 Outing, 49 Dare), Mentioned(19 Fall, 32 Slide, 35 Toad)

* * *

**Hunter**

_Nicknames_: Tinfoil

_Real Name_: Lorenzo

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: brown

_Hair color_: black

_General_: not sure

**About**

_Found in_: Peru

_Issues_: Slight OCD

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: economic statistics, graphs and charts, paperback adventures and mysteries, urban legends

_Background and personality_: Was molested by his step-father as a toddler and now has a fixation on having control over the situation and knowing what's going on. Plans everything out to the second and loves making detailed timetables, flowcharts, and graphs to describe, analyze, and project just about anything he gets involved in. Gets a little fussy about neatness and his belongings at times. Very defensive and self-conscious about his reputation.

_Future_: Has a job doing economic analysis for a while that he ends up hating. Happens to run into Echo at an airport a good six years after graduation, and the two of them wind up dropping everything, getting married, and becoming stormchasers.

**Chapters: **Narrator(41 Heist), Major(27 Police, 49 Dare)

* * *

**Isabel**

_Nicknames_: Princess

_Real Name_: Claire

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: blue

_Hair color_: light blond

_General_: kinda picturing her looking like the stereotypical 'snotty girl' you see in really lousy highschool movies

**About**

_Found in_: US

_Issues_: Pathological liar

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: Reading and writing; for some reason, her lying doesn't translate into her writing, and her poetic style is extremely poignant.

_Background and personality_: hate to use the term, but pretty much comes from a white trash background. Most of her large family is in jail for things like domestic violence, drug use and armed robbery. She herself is used to being the smart and responsible one, and is kind of a brat. Though understandably so.

_Future_: Settles down in Dublin and writes mysteries; goes through about 57 boyfriends and drives them all off eventually.

**Chapters: **Narrator(47 Grudge), Major(12 Schedule), Mentioned(5 Box Seats, 27 Police, 58 Crushed)

* * *

**Jordan**

_Real Name_: James

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ black

_Hair color:_ black afro

_General_: tallish, big mouth, big ears, big feet.

**About**

_Found in:_ US

_Issues_: Narcolepsy

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ voracious reader of everything, literary criticism, making a mess in the kitchen and calling it cooking

_Background and personality_: Brash and incredibly loud, with no concept whatsoever of using an 'inside voice'. Curious, argumentative, and loves to trash-talk.

_Future_: Scrubbed at the age of 15.

**Chapters: **Narrator(54 Training), Major(32 Slide, 46 Outing, 49 Dare)

* * *

**Karter**

_Real Name:_ Thoralf

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ bright blue

_Hair color:_ blond and crazy-curly

_General_: grows up to be lanky, always looks a bit surprised even though he's not, smiley

**About**

_Found in:_ Norway

_Issues_: Time obsession

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ particle physics, math theory, racing cars (both toys and real), esp. drag racing

_Background and personality_: The one with three watches—one is his, one was his brother's, and one was his father's. A closet Protestant. Normally on the go, likes to get things done fast and on time in the most efficient way, keeps up a quick pace and drags others along. He only really slows down when he's feeling unhappy, which isn't all too often. Goofy and likes dumb jokes, almost never gets angry and when he does usually doesn't stay that way long. Actually a pretty thoughtful guy if you can get him to slow down and be serious, which, admittedly, is not the easiest thing in the world.

_Future_: Leaves the House early with Lazlo and Nina. Eventually all three of them become professors at universities in the same city, claiming they're adoptive siblings.

**Chapters: **Narrator(37 Time's Up), Major(12 Schedule, 28 Rocket Science, 44 Calling), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 35 Toad, 46 Outing)

* * *

**Lazlo**

_Nicknames: _Lo

_Real Name_: Cesar

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ dark brown

_Hair color_: black and neatly parted

_General_: neat, put-together, all the buttons done etc.

**About**

_Found in:_ Paraguay

_Issues:_ Serious OCD

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: international law and litigation, rhetoric, crossword puzzles

_Background and personality_: obsessive about cleanliness, neatness, and orderliness, especially his hands and teeth being clean and things being arranged at right angles or nicely parallel to each other. Is similarly particular about tiny details in logic, and is good at picking out tiny inconsistencies and using them to cut up opposing arguments. A peacemaker who dislikes irrationality and is often the one to talk Nina (or her targets) down when she gets in trouble.

_Future_: Nearly gets scrubbed after a serious breakdown at the age of 17, but Karter and Nina decide enough's enough and the three of them leave together. Eventually all three of them become professors at universities in the same city, claiming they're adoptive siblings.

**Chapters: **Narrator(12 Schedule), Major(44 Calling, 46 Outing, 52 Straws), Mentioned(2 Compulsion, 22 Crossings, 35 Toad, 37 Time's Up)

* * *

**Matt**

_Real Name:_ Mail

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ green

_Hair color_: red and messy

_General_: as canon

**About**

_Found in:_ Ukraine

_Issues_: Does not care. No, really. It's a problem sometimes.

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ game theory and VR modeling, programming virtual world applications

_Background and personality: _Takes things as they go, very disinterested in almost everything unless it entertains him.

_Future: _Well I hate to shock you but he died.

**Chapters: **Narrator(1 Swap, 5 Box Seats), Major(26 Laissez-faire, 51 Glass), Mentioned(27 Police, 30 Kamikaze, 43 Perch, 50 Janiceps)

* * *

**Nina**

_Real Name:_ Celestina

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: dark brown

_Hair color:_ dark and curly

_General_: narrow, pointy sort of face and build

**About**

_Found in:_ Argentinia

_Issues_: Compulsive truth-telling

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: musical composition and theory, ethnic music, cultural history, gymnastics

_Background and personality_: She means well, but her tendency to blurt out the first thing that pops into her head gets her in trouble a lot, and if met with antagonism she tends to respond in kind. Protective of her friends, and a bit highstrung, easily riled up.

_Future: _Leaves the House early with Lazlo and Karter. Eventually all three of them become professors at universities in the same city, claiming they're adoptive siblings.

**Chapters: **Narrator(44 Calling), Major(35 Toad, 46 Outing, 52 Straws), Mentioned(22 Crossings, 37 Time's Up)

* * *

**Ochre**

_Nicknames: _Okie

_Real Name_: Elizabeth

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: bluish grey

_Hair color_: braided blond pigtails

_General_: small and a bit on the round side, permanent pout and heavy-lidded eyes

**About**

_Found in_: England

_Issues_: Borderline asocial.

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: Language and computational linguistics, AI, video games

_Background and personality_: sees things in very black-and-white terms, tendency to be terse and a bit cross, impatient with the faults of others. Extremely stubborn and pragmatic.

_Future: _Goes into AI development and ends up working in the upper echelons of a company that develops robot soldiers in the scifi near-future. Also gets married to a bald guy named Marvin who almost never talks, which she appreciates.

**Chapters: **Narrator(51 Glass), Major(27 Police, 43 Perch)

* * *

**Paolo**

_Real Name_: Marcos

**Appearance**

_Eye color_: brown

_Hair color_: dark and sorta puffy

_General_: weird-looking. not sure how but he is.

**About**

_Found in_: Brazil

_Issues_: …hard to describe. He's just kind of a perv without meaning to be.

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ biology and innovative surgical methods, animals, running "experiments"

_Background and personality_: grew up in the _favelas_ of Rio. An extremely messed-up little kid who genuinely wants to help and has no idea how much he creeps people out—the type to obliviously make inappropriate suggestions or do completely unwelcome 'favors' for people he likes.

_Future: _Winds up just barely graduating without getting scrubbed, and that by hiding a lot of the research he's up to, and eventually winds up in jail in Portugal for attempting illegal surgical procedures on misinformed patients.

**Chapters: **Narrator(35 Toad), Major(43 Perch)

* * *

**Quinn**

_Real Name:_ Kaatje

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ hazel

_Hair color:_ light brown

_General_: springy and klutzy, with big buggy eyes that are too big for the rest of her face

**About**

_Found in:_ Denmark

_Issues_: Strong visual clairvoyance, ADHD

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: photography, criminology and forensics, "investigating" (prying)

_Background and personality_: Easily distracted, the type to 'follow her feet', so to speak. Highstrung, loud, and with not a whole lot of self-awareness, often irritates people without realizing it or meaning to. Flighty, with interests that change often depending on her inclination. A little spoiled—pouty when she doesn't get her way, and throws tantrums when people try to force her to do things she doesn't want to do. Very nosy.

_Future: _Despite Icarus's warning, does indeed graduate, and goes on to be a really excellent blood spatter analyst and forensic photographer, doing urban photojournalism in her spare time.

**Chapters: **Narrator(39 Sighting), Major(25 Dig, 51 Glass), Mentioned(22 Crossings)

* * *

**Raphael**

_Nicknames_: Scooter

_Real Name_: Bianka

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ dark brown

_Hair color:_ black

_General_: not sure

**About**

_Found in:_ Italy

_Issues_: No sense of boundaries

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ sports, physics, aeronautics and rocket science, breaking things, racing

_Background and personality_: Likes just about anything that requires the use of a protective helmet, loud, excitable, active.

_Future: _Dies in a skiing accident involving jet propellant and a Teflon suit at the age of 24.

**Chapters: **Narrator(28 Rocket Science), Major(43 Perch, 51 Glass), Mentioned(22 Crossings)

* * *

**Solar**

_Real Name:_ Mafuane

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ dark brown

_Hair color:_ long and black

_General_: on the athletic side, so far as House kid go, narrow and lean sort of build and round face

**About**

_Found in:_ Uganda

_Issues:_ Depression

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies:_ reading and writing poetry and stories, climbing trees, playing flute

_Background and personality_: Recommended to Mr. W by a Red Cross worker. Stubborn and doesn't like looking stupid. Loves books and tends to trip and run into things a lot because she tries to read while walking around. Has a tendency to hole herself up somewhere she won't be bothered so she can read or write, losing track of time, and often falling asleep there, making a brief search party necessary.

_Future: _Snaps just like Beckon did and is scrubbed at the age of 14.

**Chapters: **Narrator(43 Perch), Mentioned(35 Toad)

* * *

**Train**

_Nicknames_: Cricket

_Real Name:_ Rory

**Appearance**

_Eye color:_ green

_Hair color:_ reddish brown

_General_: squirrelly kind of kid with a broad face and sneaky little grin

**About**

_Found in:_ Scotland

_Issues_: Slight kleptomania

_Interests/Skills/Hobbies_: mechanical engineering, spatial logic puzzles, taking things apart and putting them back together

_Background and personality_: Grew up mostly on the streets because he kept running away from his foster homes. Bouncy, chirpy, and curious to a fault; if he wants to know something, he just has to pick at it, be it an object or a person's behavior or whatever. Loud and a bit wild, likes to try new things and look for adventure. Charming when he puts his mind to it.

_Future: _Ends up being one of the best (or worst, depending on your perspective) thieves in modern history, and a real thorn in Near's side.

**Chapters: **Narrator(17 Magpie), Major(28 Rocket Science), Mentioned(43 Perch, 51 Glass)

* * *

_**Staff Glossary**_

_(Chapters might be particularly patchy, as a lot of them get referred to offhandedly a lot but don't really show up much)

* * *

_

**Roger**

_Nicknames_: Warden

_Staff position:_ Head Administrator/Manager

**Appearance**

As canon

**About**

_From:_ England

_Why did they take W's offer? _His wife Rosalea had recently died, more or less emotionally crippling him, and he badly needed a change of scenery.

_Personality_: Meticulous, strict, stern, introverted. He's terrible at dealing with emotional people but excellent at getting a lot of paperwork done perfectly in a very short amount of time, as well as picking out loopholes in rules and legal statements. He dislikes noise and disorderliness and likes Royal Lochnagar scotch…perhaps a little too much.

* * *

**Marta**

_Nicknames_: Ma, Mama

_Staff position:_ Matron

**Appearance**

Large and imposing, lots of grey-streaked dark wavy hair that she usually keeps under a babushka, red cheeks and dark eyes.

**About**

_From:_ Russia

_Why did they take W's offer? _ Her husband Matvei got in over his head in Mafia affairs and wound up getting himself and his entire family killed; Marta just barely escaped.

_Personality_: Extremely stern, but caring. Gets quite strident when she's angry, and has an amazing capacity for long lectures that impress her righteous wrath upon you, making you feel about an inch tall. Despite it all her bark is much worse than her bite. She likes quilting in her rare spare time.

**Chapters: ** 5 Box Seats, 20 Volcano, 22 Crossings, 45 Astronauts

* * *

_Incidentally, Roger and Marta are the only Insiders using their real names.

* * *

_

**Torres**

_Nicknames_: Bull

_Real name: _Antonia

_Staff position: _Counselor/psychiatrist

**Appearance**

Petite and slender, has a generally professional and put-together appearance, always very neat and well-dressed, dark hair in a strict knot and dark eyes.

**About**

_From:_ Spain

_Why did they take W's offer? _ A wealthy and influential client who had her counseling their son wrongly accused her of sexually abusing the child. She was declared innocent by the courts but the incident destroyed her reputation and her practice, along with her natural inclination to trust people.

_Personality_: Reserved, quiet, comes across as very aloof because she tries so hard not to become too emotionally involved.

**Chapters: **15 Poker, 29 Unchained, 40 Miscarriage

* * *

**Constance**

_Nicknames_: Cookie, Connie

_Real name: _Dairine

_Staff position: _Head chef

**Appearance**

Solidly and comfortably built, looks a bit like you'd expect a farmer's wife to, short blond/grey hair and a firm mouth.

**About**

_From:_ Ireland

_Why did they take W's offer? _Her six sons (three sets of twins) all got wrapped up in the rebellion that had killed her husband, two on the side of the government and four in the rebellion, despite her efforts to keep the family together. All of them died the same day in a train bombing.

_Personality_: Brooks no nonsense from anyone, believes in hard work, good food, and lots of affection. Always willing to lend a sympathetic ear if you're having a bad day, but just as willing to give you a swat over the head if you're being lazy.

**Chapters: **4 Itch, 40 Miscarriage, 55 Rosemary

* * *

**Hopkins**

_Real name: _Benedek

_Staff position: _Groundskeeper

**Appearance**

Bald, browned from being outside all the time, aged a bit like unfinished leather. Always wears this really ugly fishing hat.

**About**

_From:_ Hungary

_Why did they take W's offer? _ I never asked, and he's not the type to tell. A military background, at least, where he saw some pretty nasty action.

_Personality_: Brusque, matter-of-fact, often crude, politically incorrect, full of worldly wisdom and more than happy to share it. Extremely possessive and protective of what he sees as his responsibility.

**Chapters: **22 Crossings, 28 Rocket Science, 54 Training

* * *

**Addison**

_Real name: _Christopher

_Staff position: _Head Librarian

**Appearance**

Extremely tall and lanky, indeterminate age, long squarish face, glasses, blue eyes, and a shock of peppered blond hair.

**About**

_From:_ US

_Why did they take W's offer? _ He was a witness in a gang-related murder trial and put under the Witness Protection Program, but the guys after him ended up tracking him down.

_Personality_: Cheerful, compassionate, but has no problem taking charge and ordering people around in his friendly-but-firm sort of way when it's necessary. A bookish man who likes maps, political cartoons, and doing the newspaper crossword.

**Chapters: **8 Drive, 15 Poker, 46 Outing

* * *

**Kendall**

_Real name: _Lisa

_Staff position: _Reference Librarian

**Appearance**

Short, plump, curly red-dyed hair, bright makeup, large clunky jewelry in bright and clashing colors. Also wears fuzzy dinosaur slippers.

**About**

_From:_ England

_Why did they take W's offer? _ High-stakes blackjack got her in a lot more trouble than she could handle.

_Personality_: An eccentric old woman who laughs a lot and loves to gossip and gamble.

**Chapters: **15 Poker, 35 Toad

* * *

**Verity**

_Real name: _Agnes

_Staff position: _Nurse

**Appearance**

Braided black hair, on the slender side

**About**

_From:_ Rwanda

_Why did they take W's offer? _ Had been a pediatric surgeon. She lost her job and family in the civil war and fled.

_Personality_: Quiet, soft-spoken, quick and efficient.

* * *

**Chegal**

_Real name: _Kwang-sun

_Staff position: _Head of digital security

**Appearance**

A bit on the sallow side, sunken cheeks, old- and tired-looking

**About**

_From:_ North Korea

_Why did they take W's offer? _ Was put in prison for spying and probably would have been executed if he hadn't escaped.

_Personality_: A bit dark, cynical, sort of a downer, but very good at what he does.

**Chapters: **21 Panopticon, 57 Still

* * *

**Other staff that don't really get mentioned much or at all—**

**Barton **(media center technician, tall black bald guy)

**Witterson **(the previous manager, who got sacked over the whole A/BB thing)

**Dr. Chester **(temporary counselor brought right after the A/BB thing before Torres was hired)

* * *

**Quick notes on some of the aides…**

**I figure there are three or four when Mello and Near show up, and about twenty by the time L and Wammy die.**

**Sadiki**

Night aide. Kenyan. Likes jewelry.

**Raina**

Activities aide. Sporty and jocular, and the terror of most of the children.

**Moira**

Day aide. Good at multi-tasking, bad at picking boyfriends.

**Jerzy**

Night aide. Likes basketball and kids, but not documentaries.

**Gavin**

Day aide. Super tall.

**Stella**

Night aide, one of the early ones

**Jeremy**

Day aide. a little more easily overwhelmed than some of them**  
**


	63. Afterthought

***hides face***

**oh dear. I know I said I wasn't going to work on this anymore, but I've had this idea in my head ever since I wrote ch. 33. I thought the blurbs in the character glossary would stave it off, but it's just been bugging at me and work has been so stressful that I needed something empty-minded to work on. Sooooo here it is...**** even though it really has nothing at all to do with DN and it got four or five times longer than I meant it to D: ****...Devon, Crash, and Zane ten years after graduation. And yes this is a one-shot.  


* * *

**

"I thought we were keeping this casual," Hunter says when Devon shows up, five minutes late and with an expression like an impending thunderstorm.

It's not exactly unusual for D to be a little dressy for any event, but next to V and H's sweatshirts and Zane's ever-present plaid, the dark turtleneck and sharp-cut suit look pretty out of place.

"This _is_ how I do casual," he snaps. He's in a foul mood and really doesn't want to deal with their silly little jokes.

"Don't be so unhappy, D," Vince says unhelpfully, rubbing it in with a bright smile. "We're here to have fun. Just relax and enjoy it."

"I'm not unhappy," Devon grates.

"You're never happy. And you only get defensive about it when you're _especially_ angsty," Hunter points out.

"I suppose we could just stand out here in the cold and nag D instead of going in," Zane comments dryly, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking around the street disinterestedly.

They're standing outside a video game arcade. The games here have nothing on the ones they grew up playing, military training games and games designed by Concord and Hopper and Matt and the strategy and mind games they all played without a video interface in between. All in all, this place doesn't have much to offer them…on the surface.

The fun is in crashing it. Every six months the four of them have a reunion and pick an arcade, where they go to compete with each other—who can fill up the high score boards of the most games by the end of the night.

It's true that Devon doesn't get much enjoyment from most things, but in the past this evening has been a rare bright spot on a calendar jam-packed with meetings and labwork and presentations. If nothing else, it's a good chance to get away from work and let his hair down (metaphorically speaking only, of course) with some old friends who can actually keep up with him in conversation. Tonight, though, he's just not in the mood for it.

Or anything, for that matter.

Vince and Hunter, on the other hand, are rearing to go, eagerly blazing the way with a sunbeam smile and a smug smirk, respectively. Stifling a sigh, Devon strides after them, Zane shambling in his wake.

"Well, whaddya reckon you'll start with?" Zane rumbles, reaching automatically for a cigarette.

"This is a no-smoking venue," Devon mutters, wishing he could have a cigarette himself. The arcade isn't that full, but it's loud regardless, with crashing and beeping and flashing lights and horrible, jingly music and the crunch of popcorn and candy wrappers underfoot. A virtual explosion on the nearest screen makes him scowl.

"Oh. So it is. Well there's a bar down the street with no smoking restriction." Z sticks the unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, then raises his bushy eyebrows quizzically when he catches the scathing look his friend is giving him. "What?"

"Look, I just don't want to talk right now," Devon snaps, running a hand through his hair then automatically smoothing it back down again.

"Who said anything about talking? We can go have a smoke and a quick drink and be back in time to kick Haj and Enzo's asses all over this place."

"You're so full of shit," D grumbles. He knows he sounds rather pettish and doesn't care enough to try to adjust his tone to something less whiny. "I know exactly what you're planning. You think you'll get me wasted and I'll talk it all out and that will make it better, but it _won't_—"

"Oh my God, stop over-thinking it and just have a damn cigarette," Zane says, rolling his eyes and hauling his friend back out the door by one arm.

"Watch it, this suit was expensive!"

"Yeah, and I'm sure you can afford a thousand more. And if not I can lend you pocket change."

-o-

"I'll have a Diesel #2 and he'll have a brandy neat filled up to…there," Zane tells the bartender, holding his tape measure up to a brandy snifter and indicating a spot rather higher than the half-full. Devon watches incredulously as the man complies.

"If you think I'm going to drink _that_ much brandy—"

"That's how much it takes before you get talkative," Zane says, sliding the glass ponderously over to him and ignoring the barman's raised eyebrows. "You can either get to that point or not. No pressure."

"…Why would you measure something like that?" he asks, eyeing the ridiculously large drink with skepticism.

"Why do you go on like everything is the end of the world?" Zane returns pointedly, and Devon is forced to concede that the question was out of line. They may be ten years graduated, but somehow House rules seem just as important as ever. He ought to know better than to refer to his friend's compulsions.

"Sorry," he says grudgingly, and just as grudgingly picks up his drink. It's not at all his sort of venue—he likes things sleek and sharp and glossy-clean, and this place is a smoky hole in the wall dimly lit by cheap neon beer signs. The glass is clean enough, though, and the brandy is at least of bearable quality.

"So," says Zane when twenty minutes have passed and the level of brandy in the glass has sunk considerably. "I heard through the grapevine you guys split again."

"Naturally," the other man grumbles morosely around his third cigarette. "No wires, no cams, living all over the damn world yet everyone knows each other's business like we all still live on the same hall." He takes another sip of his drink and winces. "Thought you weren't going to nag me about that 'til I was drunk enough."

"Oh, you are," Z assures him, knocking back the rest of his own drink and tapping it for a refill. "I lied. You were done for about a half centimeter ago, especially at that rate. All I have to do is wait for it to kick in. Unless, by chance, you have miraculously become _not_ a lightweight since September."

He almost laughs at the doleful look of accusation on his friend's face, but manages to hold back.

"I hate you sometimes," Devon settles on finally, letting his chin drop into his hand and taking another desultory sip.

"I know. So, what's the story?"

"I told you, I don't want to talk about it. _Please_ drop it."

Zane shrugs. "Ok. Suit yourself."

"I said drop it!"

"And I dropped it, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but the only reason you let something drop that easily is because you have every intently—intention—of bringing it up again in ten minutes," Devon says crossly, stubbing out his cigarette.

"Hah, well, ok then, what do you want me to do? If I bring it up, I'm bringing it up, and if I don't, I'm still bringing it up? Sounds like you're not leaving me much grace room there."

"Let's just go back to the arcade," Devon says, standing up to do just that, and sitting down again abruptly as the room spins.

"Or not," Zane says. To his credit, not a hint of smugness actually comes through in his tone.

"Or not," Devon agrees, sighing.

"Well, since it doesn't look like you're going anywhere, maybe you wanna tell me what happened between you and Maddie."

"I'm not too drunk to call a car and make it to the sidewalk," D mutters, digging in his pocket for his phone. "I'm getting out of here—"

"Oh, oops. Looks like you can't call your driver," Zane says, swiping the phone from his hand and pocketing it. "So unless you want to leave your phone with me and flag down some filthy public cab…."

"I really hate you," Devon says, but he doesn't try to wrestle it back, which Z figures is telling.

"So what'd you do to piss her off this time?"

"I—hell, don't ask _me_ why she's pissed!" Snarling a little, he snatches his drink back up, taking a more-than-healthy mouthful and choking a little. "She just crazy, that all. That bitch is _crazy_."

"Anyone could have told you that when we were what, like, _ten_," Zane points out.

"Pff, come on, what one of us wasn't _kind_ of crazy? But she's just ridiculous," Devon gripes. Venting an aggravated sigh, he traces a finger around the rim of his glass. "One second everything is as fine as it can be, the next second, bam!" He spreads his hands explosively, nearly knocking over his glass. "…Whoa."

Z raises an eyebrow. "More ridiculous than usual?"

"Trust me, she has infinite reserves of ridiculessnous—ridikess—of stupid stashed away for special occasions," he sighs, fiddling with his glass again.

"Yeah? And what occasion did she pull them out for this time?"

Devon flushes slightly. "You'll laugh."

"Try me."

"No," he growls, abruptly shoving what's left of his brandy away. "It's none of your damn business."

"That's never stopped me in the past, has it?" Shrugging, Zane pulls out Devon's phone. "I guess I'll just have to call C and ask her."

"No!" Blanching, Devon actually does lunge for him, trying to snatch the phone back. Zane is still rather steadier than his friend, however, even though he's had much more to drink, and he has a much more solid build, so it's not too difficult to hold him off with one hand while looking for Crash's number with the other.

"Jeff, _please_ don't," Devon implores him rather pathetically, even as C picks up and bellows into the phone, "What part of 'don't talk to me' isn't compiling correctly in your thick 'ead?"

Ignoring Devon, he replies off-handedly. "Hey, Maddie, it's Z."

"What?" Immediately Crash's tone shifts gears from angry to suspicious. "Why do you 'ave Jahid's phone? What do you want?"

"Jeez, I didn't say anything about D. Aren't you interested at all in what _I'm_ up to? I'm the one calling, after all."

"Jeff," Devon says in a low voice, "hang up the phone."

"You're calling from _his_ phone," Crash points out flatly. "That _does_ kinda 'int he might be involved."

"Well, since you've brought up the subject. What's up with you guys anyway? I hear you broke up. Again."

"Jeff." D's tone is quickly growing dangerous.

"Is he there with you?" Crash demands. "He is, isn't 'e?"

"Obviously," says Zane boredly. "It's not like I stole his phone."

"Actually," Devon grates, making another fumbling attempt to retrieve his phone and nearly falling off of his stool, "It kind of is _exactly_ like that."

"You guys—ugh! Look, it's none of your business, _Jeffrey_, so bugger off, and while you're at it tell Jahid not to call me again until he's come to his senses!"

"I'm not sure he has any of those," Zane comments.

"What, you know about this? He already talk to you about it?"

"Dammit, Jeff, give me the phone," D snarls, grabbing Zane's arm.

"No, he hasn't yet," Z shouts in the general direction of the phone while trying to shove Devon back. "Care to enlighten me?"

"That crazy nutter thinks we should—"

"Fine!" Devon cries, finally getting a grip on the phone and snapping it shut, severing the connection. "I proposed to her, ok? Are you happy now?"

"Huh," Zane says rather anticlimactically after a moment. "Never had you pinned as the marrying type."

"Well, evidentially _Maddie_ isn't," Devon mutters, dropping his forehead onto his arms. "She'd rather keep playing this idiotic bounce-away, bounce-back game until one of us blows a gasket."

"You know what your problem is?" Z says, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "She just too smart for you."

His head snaps back up, insulted. "She's no smarter than me!" The movement catches up to him and he reels a little.

"Not she's smarter _than_ you, she's too smart _for_ you. Too smart to date," Zane clarifies, tapping the bar for emphasis. He taps it again, harder, to be _extra_ emphatic.

"Well, what would you know about it?" his friend snaps. "That puff-head you've tagged has never even _heard_ of smart."

"We've been married for five years and never had a problem," Z points out drolly. He doesn't bother sticking up for Muffie's intelligence; Dev is right, she wouldn't know five plus five even if someone counted it out on her pretty manicured fingers for her. And this is hardly the first time his friend has criticized his wife. What Muffie doesn't know won't hurt her, which pretty much guarantees she's going to have a life of blissful ignorance.

"She's not your wife, she's your _pet_," Devon says, disgust thick in his voice.

"Yeah, but she's a hell of a lot hotter than a cat. Costs a lot more, too."

The other man doesn't laugh like Z sort of hoped he would, but grits his teeth, pressing his palms to his eyes. Zane sighs.

"Look, Jahid, she'll come around. You two done this kazillion times, _da_? Run off in a huff, blow off some steam, come back. As far as I know, she's never taken up with someone else, and neither have you. Obviously _something_ is working there. So what's the big deal? Just chill and wait, and she'll yo-yo right on back, as usual."

"That's just it, I'm _sick_ of the yo-yo game!" Devon bursts out, flinging out his hands again. This time he does knock over his glass, sending a good deal of (rather expensive) brandy splattering across the bar. He manages to catch the glass itself before it falls and shatters, but the barman still looks cross.

"Refill?"

"…Yeah," D says, sounding defeated. "Don't you laugh at me," he adds, flushing at Zane's look of amusement. "Let's just get smashed."

-o-

Not too much later, at least one of them is well on his way to doing just that.

"It was a beautiful ring, too," D rambles, picking out another nacho. He knows they must have ordered them at some point, but his memory of the event is not 100% clear. "Would have got her as big a diamond as anyone could want, but I didn't think she'd wear one—had one custom made of carnelian and citrine and fire opal."

"Sounds nice," says Zane. It does sound nice. Sounds…sparkly. He tilts his glass a little, letting the dim yellow of the bar lights glitter through the ice.

"Maddie didn't think so," Devon mumbles. "Didn't even look at it. Tried to do the whole down-on-one knee thing, cuz that's how they do it—stop laughing!" He aims to punch Z in the shoulder and misses. "'Zactly what _she_ did, just laughed. Thought I was _joking_. And as soon as she figured out I was for serious, she ran for it." He splays out a hand rather less gracefully than usual, pointing presumably in some direction that Crash might have left.

"Sorry, man. That sucks."

"Yeah," D says, dropping his hand to the bar with a _thunk_ and staring down into his glass miserably. "It does. I just don't get it, Jeff."

"What's that?"

"Why she'll come back, and come back, and come back, but she can't just _stay_."

"You've left a fair number of times," Z points out.

"I know. I _know_. But I'm just tired of it, you know?"

"Yeah."

"I want to be able to come home and she's there, or at least she plans to be, instead of a nasty note on the fridge and all her stuff gone."

"Understandable."

"Maybe I should call her."

"No," Zane says immediately, putting his hand over Devon's phone quickly and sliding it back over the bar to drop it into his jacket pocket again. "Definitely not until you're sober."

"You're right." Sighing again, D lets his head sink down to rest on his crossed arms. "You're a good friend, Jeff."

"You get a lot sappier when you're drunk, you know that?"

"So it looks to…be like."

"So it does."

"I really thought she'd like the ring," Devon slurs again, almost plaintively. It seems to be becoming something of a fixation.

"That's unusually optimistic of you," he comments, frowning a little down at his drink. Zane has never seen his friend quite this down—sure, he's always been sullenly pessimistic, and often cranky, but this level of depression is something new.

"I had it made six years back. Six _years_ and yeah, no, I mean yeah I didn't give it to her. I didn't think she'd say yes, you know? That's why, Jeff."

"Why what?"

"Why never—you should never think things are good. You think it's good and then it's not, even—why wouldn't she want to stay with me, huh? Tell me that, why can't she just stay? Can't predict…that."

"No," Zane says quietly, "I suppose you can't."

In addition to giving him something to tease his overly-serious friend about, D's complete inability to hold his liquor has invariably been useful to Z on these occasions. True, it's been a year and a half since last time they did this, but it's looking like his alcohol tolerance has improved by a few milliliters at best. When it looks like the other man is losing steam, dark head buried in his arms on the bar, Zane calls his own driver to come pick them up, then rings Hunter.

"Where the heck have you guys been? We've tied this place up!"

"Next door. Needed a smoke. D's got some stuff to take care of so we're gonna truck out. Catch you guys for breakfast in the morning, hey?"

H sobers immediately. "'Nother rough patch with C, huh?"

"Eleven-thirty works great," Zane replies, casting a sideways look at Devon, who looks to be falling asleep with his face pressed to the stained bartop.

"Gotcha. _Zai jian_."

"Come on, D," Z says, looping his arm under D's and hauling him to his feet. "Let's get you to bed."

"But—the nachos—" Devon attempts to shake him off, and nearly falls over.

"We can order more nachos at the hotel."

"Oh. Ok. You know what? I invented a laser for you."

"A laser, huh? Come on, into the car. Whoa, watch your head."

"Didn't work, though, so I didn't send you one. Figure you'd prefer the tape measure anyway. Well it worked but not on the back. You know what I mean?"

Zane allows himself to relax into the leather of the seat; he knows the inside of his cars, and he feels a lot better knowing how far the ceiling is from the top of his head. His neck untenses for the first time since he left his hotel suite earlier in the evening. "I don't figure I do."

"It's a depth refrash—refraction laser," Devon rambles on, closing one eye and jabbing a finger out sharply. "Put that sucker on the floor and _vssh_!" He flings his arm out, whacking his hand on the window. "…Ow."

"Gotta watch out for those windows. They jump out at you," Zane says, amused.

"Sure do. Shiiiit. How much didja let me drunk?"

"About 700 milliliters."

Devon blinks at him. "Thassa lot."

"Yup."

"How come _you're_ not drunk?"

"It's the beard. Soaks up all the alcohol."

"Huh." His friend sits back, processing that for a moment. "What was I talking about again?"

"Refraction lasers."

"Right. Lasers. And it measures the distance from itself to all the stuff and generates a 3d model of the room. Even detects glass. But not around stuff, so gotta move it."

Zane can't imagine depending on such a thing instead of making his measurements by hand and knowing for sure that they're absolutely accurate, but he supposes it's the thought that counts.

"That sounds pretty cool," he lies, and Devon almost looks pleased.

-o-

Getting Devon into the hotel and then the elevator is something of a challenge, but Z had the foresight to get a suite with multiple bedrooms. After forcing a glass of water (.82 liters) down his throat all it takes to convince him to call it a night is a light shove onto one of the spare beds. He'll be pissed about the wrinkles in his expensive suit the next morning, but Zane thinks dryly that he'll probably survive.

Sighing, he drops heavily onto the sofa (3 meters 4 centimeters long) , flicks on the widescreen (1.5 meters) TV and mutes it, and pulls out his phone.

"Crash," he says, the instant the call goes through and before she has time to shout. They're Insiders, he's reminding her. They deal with things in rational ways. They are both smart and powerful, and she's better off keeping up a good relationship with him than pissing him off for personal reasons.

"…What do you want this time," she says guardedly.

Z props his feet up on the coffee table, watching the newscaster silently mouth the details of the latest twist in an upcoming city election. "I want to talk to you about Jahid."

"It's none of your business."

"He's my friend. I'm making it my business. If you don't hear me out," he continues, when there's a rustling on the other end and he thinks she might hang up anyway, "I'm going to turn you in to the CIA."

C's breath hisses in the speaker. "You wouldn't do something that stupid, Z."

"You wouldn't do something as stupid as avoiding a brief phone conversation to make that bet."

"Talk then. What? You've never taken this much of an interest before. Getting bored?"

"You've never hurt him this bad, Maddie."

"'E is fine. 'E is going through a phase."

"I don't think he is."

"Don't try to lay the guilt-trip on me, Mama," C snaps. "Say what you want to and don't be so coy."

"Look who's talking," Zane comments dryly.

"Yeah, put all the blame on me—you know perfectly well 'e's walked out on me before too!"

He pulls the phone away a little, wincing as her shrill shouting makes the speaker crackle. "Well there's leaving and there's leaving."

"Jeffrey! If you will not be blunt then there's not much point in 'earing you out, now is there? Jahid always thinks everything will go wrong, I am sure he is thrilled about being right—"

"He's been sitting on that for a long time now. He waited until he was sure. You really blind-sided him this time."

There's a long silence, and the line goes dead.

-o-

It's very, very late, but it's not so late in California. Muffie answers the video call after two rings.

"My bear!" she squeals, delighted. It looks like she was getting ready for bed; her curly blond hair is ruffled down around her shoulders, and she's wearing one of his undershirts. Zane drinks her in; her face is damn near symmetrical (he knows because he's measured it) and every time he sees it, it makes something pull in his gut.

"Hey muffin."

"Are you having fun with your friends?" It's asked hesitantly; she's not bright enough to have picked up on the fact that his old House friends have no use for her, and she doesn't really understand what the House is or was; just that they went to some sort of boarding school together. Z knows she is unsettled by them, though. He hasn't had any Insiders over while Muffie was home since the one time, where they talked for hours about politics and physics and trends in web policy, while the poor, stupid woman nervously offered them snacks and her pretty brow creased in bewilderment. He hates seeing that look on her face.

"Oh, it's alright. I sure do miss you though," he tells her, only half lying.

It's what she wants to hear, and it lights her up like the city streets on New Year's.

He sort of wishes, sometime, that she were a little smarter, that he could confide about his problems and his friends' problem to her and she would understand and maybe even have some helpful suggestion.

She's not, though.

So instead Zane nods and says "oh yeah?" and "that sounds nice" in the appropriate pauses while she chatters about what she's been doing in his absence. She went shopping with her friend and bought some green shoes, someone said something funny at yoga, she doesn't think the new maid is doing a good enough job of dusting the china. While semi-listening to his wife prattle on, Z watches her face and the way it changes expression, the way her cheeks dimples when she smiles, the funny little frown she makes when her un-styled hair slides sideways into her eyes. He thinks about Devon and Crash, and thinks people as mental as they all are well advised to hang on to the first person they encounter who will tolerate them. Even if that person is someone as vapid as this woman—this doll, who has no concept of a budget or what interest means on a credit account; who let him measure every salt-skinned millimeter of her, not understanding at all except that in some way it gave him pleasure; who insists on telling him every boring detail of her inane life, just because it means that much longer before he hangs up.

When he finally does, after an excruciatingly prolonged goodbye, Z briefly considers going to sleep. He's got a lot of caffeine rushing through him, though. Might as well stay up and get some work done.

-o-

The knock at the door, several hours later, startles him. For a disoriented moment, blinking from behind his computer, he tries to remember if he ordered room service. When the knock comes again, however, nearly shaking the door in its force, Zane is even more startled by the realization of who is probably behind it.

Crash looks terrible. She's got a suit jacket on over a coffee-stained blouse and sweatpants, a duffle bag over her shoulder and a half-empty bag of plane pretzels crumpled in one hand, and her eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot.

"Where is he?"


	64. Holiday Special

**Trust me to make even Christmas depressing. This kind of came out a lot sadder and weirder than I meant. Oh well! Hooray, I'm finally graduated! I have a job! It's almost Christmas! Here's a pathetically angsty holiday special to celebrate! :D**

**Also I should probably note, this is meant to take place in that bit before Near knows about L.  
**

* * *

Pretend

Christmas is always an odd time at the House.

Officially it's unaffiliated, and in everyday practice it's mostly a washed-out, carefully not-too-any-cultural agnostic. In private reality, of course, the individuals of the House span a wide variety of cultures and spiritual backgrounds. Due to both this, and to the fact that almost everyone under Wammy's roof has either lost, left, or simply never had family, writing the official House policy on the cluster of major holidays in early winter was something of a sticky issue. Preferencing one tradition over another was out of the question, but if they celebrated _everything_, the argument went, the students would never get _anything_ done.

The compromise is that they don't really observe any major holidays. The rhythm of the House is not one of weather, or planting and harvest, or religions, or ages of life; it's one of curriculum. Terms, tests, projects, grade reports. There is no room is the curriculum for Easter or Halloween, for independence days or birthdays.

The sole exception is New Year's. That is when the term ends and the new one begins. Gifts are exchanged, everyone is considered a year older, the House is covered in lights and tinsel and paper lamps and filled with a motley variety of international treats treats, and there is no homework.

Of course, just because that was the official policy doesn't mean the staff and students keep to it very well. Many of the professors are known to assign less or no homework at all on the days of holidays they liked to celebrate, and Christmas is a major cause of transgression in this regard. Others teach sections that are obviously, if not explicitly, Christmas-related. The math class almost always gets assigned a project to determine the best route for a hypothetical flying vehicle to pass over the capital of every nation in the world in a single night, and the speed it would require. The literature professor manages to finagle the curriculum every year so that Charles Dickens is always covered in late December—and discussion of his famous holiday morality story always just so happens to land on the 25th. Constance finds herself unusually "at loose ends, and needing occupation", which is her explanation to Roger and the nutritionist for all the extra cookies and sweets that somehow sneak into meals and snacktimes.

All of this goes rather above Near's head. He knows about Christmas. He doesn't mind not having it. This Christmas is only his sixth, and he only remembers one from Before the House.

That was soon before Mommy had the baby inside her. And Mommy had been having one of her Loud Times, when she barged restlessly around the apartment, shouting and batting him out of the way if he made the mistake of being there, which he rarely did. Near had learned early that the best place to be during the Loud Times was in his room, playing silently by himself.

After the Loud Time would come the Quiet Time, when it was ok to come out. This Quiet Time had lasted longer than usual. Near always counted, remembered each one and how long it was. This Quiet Time had been twenty hours and forty-two minutes, which was five hours and eleven minutes longer than the longest one before that. And so Near made up his mind to do something very dangerous: he crept into her bedroom to check if she was dead.

She was not.

Mommy groaned when he prodded her face with the spatula, cracked open bloodshot eyes and demanded hoarsely, "What the hell are you doing?"

Dropping the spatula and scrambling back off the bed, that's what he was doing.

"Little shit," she'd grumbled, curling up and clutching her face with her hands before checking her watch. There was a long, creaking moment, as the rusty gears in her mind turned and calculated, then she abruptly shot up with a loud curse. Near had taken that as a cue to run for it.

"Christmas!"

A loud crash, as she apparently fell out of the bed, then staggering footsteps. With the quickness of long practice, Near slipped under his bed and watched as her socked feet halted in his doorway.

"Nate, dammit, you should have woken me up sooner. Yesterday was Christmas, you shit. It's your own fault you missed it. Friggin—" A cracking thump, as she punched the wall, followed by more cursing, and a kick to the side of the bed.

"Get out from there! We're leaving right now."

Near gasped and grabbed for the foot of the bed as she dragged him out by the ankle, but instead of kicking him, she dropped a sweater on him. "Get dressed! Dammit. Look, I'm sorry Nate," her tone abruptly switched to cajoling, hoarse and anxious. "It's your fault we missed Christmas, not mine. But Mommy's going to fix it, ok? Get your coat on."

Near had obeyed, quickly.

Ten minutes later, they had not left. Mommy was raging around the house, kicking over chairs and searching through the kitchen cupboards for his mittens. Near was certain he did not have any.

In the end she stuck socks on his hands and dragged him out into the snowblinding sunshine, fingers digging into his shoulder through his jacket, to the burger place at the end of the block. They'd had chicken nuggets and she'd yelled at the boy behind the counter when he said at first that they would just have to be happy with whatever toy was in stock, made them pull three boxes out of the back room so Near could pick. Near had chosen the little red car with the yellow stripes on the sides, because it looked the fastest, then Mommy had scooped it into her coat pocket and said he couldn't have it.

When they got home, he looked on in bemusement and no small amount of nervousness as Mommy dumped the contents of a box of fruit gummies on the kitchen floor, put the toy inside it, and tabbed it shut again.

"Here, Nate," Mommy said tiredly, pressing it into his tiny hands. "Merry Christmas."

Doubtfully, his eyes had shifted from her, to the box, and back.

"Go on. Open it up and see what Santa got you."

Near opened the box. There was the red car, still in its plastic wrapping.

"Well? What is it?"

He didn't like this game. He knew Santa didn't exist. And Mommy knew what was in the box. He had watched her put the car inside. Why was she asking him questions she already knew the answers to, which she knew _he_ knew the answers to? Was he supposed to play along? The little boy slowly pulled the toy out of the box and showed it to her.

"Very nice," Mommy said in that strange, exaggerated honey-tone that many adults always seemed to have, that Mommy sometimes had when she was not having a Loud Time. "Do you like it?"

Near nodded. Of course he did, or he would not have chosen it. Mommy bent down to wrap her bony arms around him in a rare hug. Uncertainly, his arms came up to return the embrace. Then she gave him a curt pat on the back and stood straight again.

"Good. Go play with it, then," she sighed, then stumbled back to bed.

So Near took the car and played in his room by himself. It was not really any different from usual.

Christmas at the House is much less stressful, at least.

And there's less homework. Many of the older students and even the professors are lounging around, talking and relaxing and playing, even though it's only afternoon. Near observes Dex, Fallon, Hopper, and Gao sitting down for a game of Risk, something they usually only find the time to do on Saturday nights; and Moira is teaching Icarus and Kae to make paper snowflakes. It seems like everyone is finding time to lay off the studying a little bit, even with the end of term upon them.

Except Mello, of course. His door is shut, as it is most afternoons when he's not in class or the library. He's doing schoolwork, Near is certain.

Last Christmas, they went out and played in the snow, under Moira's watchful gaze. Mello had shown him how to build a snowman. The bottom snowball had turned out to be too big for the subsequent layers, because even with the aide's laughing help they had been unable to lift the properly-sized middle ball on top. In the end Mello had decided the bottom was Santa's belly and they could just put a head on him.

"Santa isn't real," Near had pointed out.

"That's not the point, Near. He's just part of Christmas. You have to pretend in the story for a little bit, because it's fun."

Near opens Mello's door without knocking, slooowly creaking it open little by little because he knows the hinge squeaks for the first four inches and it drives Mello crazy. Sure enough, after just three seconds of the drawn-out screak of the door the older boy glares up from his desk and barks, "What?"

"You're studying," Near observes, swinging the door back and forth a little. _Reeak reak, reeeak reak._

"What do you want, Near?"

Near waits patiently, placidly for him to discern the obvious.

"Look, I don't have time to play with you. I have to study." Mello hunches back over his paper to do just that. His fringe falls over his eyes, blocking the irritation out, and Near has a sudden desire to just chop it off.

"Why?"

"Why do you ask questions you know the answers to? Exams are soon. I have to beat Dex and Fallon."

"Exams aren't for three days."

"That's soon. Now go away."

_Reeak reak, reeeak reak._ "…It's Christmas, Mello."

"Stop doing that! You win at being annoying, ok? And there is no Christmas at Wammy's."

"Why?"

Mello sighs in absolute exasperation, slapping his pen down to his desk with a smack. "Some things are more important than Christmas, Near."

"What things?"

"Things you'll know about when you're older," Mello says loftily. "Now stop bothering me and find something else to do!"

Near leaves the door ajar just so Mello will have to get up and close it.

He winds up back in the common room, playing by himself. No different from usual. Mello is right, there is no Christmas at Wammy's, so there's no reason to feel any differently about it than any other day.

There are many little cars to play with here, red and green and yellow and blue and his favorite, a black one with white racing stripes. Dumping out one of the puzzle boxes, Near sits next to the pile of scattered pieces, curling his knee up to his chest and resting his chin on his knee. He puts the black and white car in the box and shuts it.

For a moment, he pretends.

Then Near opens the box, and peers inside.


End file.
